Until the Bell Tolls
by Tipper
Summary: An arsonist fugitive is caught, but the disaster he's planned continues to play out. To make matters worse, everyone's on edge after a King goes down. Some spoilers for Season One
1. Chapter 1

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS**  
By **Tipper**

Disclaimer: The Breakout Kings is owned by A&E. This story was created for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s), not me. Thank you to the amazing writers, producers, actors, crew and directors who bring the show to life.

Status: Complete in 12 chapters. It's a little over 49,000 words.

Characters: Everyone plays a major role—which sort of explains the length. A little Juliet/Lloyd subtext, because I'm a romantic sap.

Acknowledgement: Thanks to NT for the beta

A/N: I took some liberties, adding to character backgrounds, so some things will be AU in the new season, I'm sure. Spoilers for the whole first season just in case, though I don't reference it that much.

Description: A fugitive arsonist is caught, but the disaster he's planned continues to play out. To make matters worse, everyone's on edge after a King goes down.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**: **BOOM**

Lloyd hating waiting.

Shoulders hunched and hands stuffed in his pockets, he leaned against the ambulance, trying to stay warm. Storm clouds as thick as smoke had rolled in, bringing chilling winds and dropping temperatures. Talk about foreboding. The sensation wasn't lessened by the presence of the seven police cars, two fire trucks, and one ambulance surrounding him, all with lights flashing, their exhaust fumes filling the frigid air with a smoky haze. No one was talking, though. Like him, they remained overly still, silently waiting in the freezing cold for something to happen.

A hundred yards away, the old ramshackle house in Redkill, New York rattled and trembled in the heavy winds, looking ready to separate from its foundations at any moment. And inside its crumbling wooden frame, his team tracked down another fugitive, while he and the local PD waited outside.

Two sharp bangs, muzzle flashes lighting the windows on the second floor.

Lloyd huffed. A couple of officers shifted, rifles raised; a hushed command from their captain, and they stilled.

Another shot. Police officers' hands tensed around their rifles, black barrels shifting restlessly.

Realistically, Lloyd knew that the shots were probably warning shots, shot by Charlie or Ray. Realistically, he knew that it was statistically unlikely that any of his team had been hurt, since no other shots had been fired. Realistically, he knew that, in all probability, Erica and Shea weren't even on the second floor, they'd probably been told to stay by the door as soon as the fugitive had been sighted.

Realistically….

Realistically, no one ever accepted the realistic scenario when the fatalistic scenario grew inside your gut like ringworm, wiping out all rational thought and leaving behind only complete and abject fear.

Pressing close to the ambulance, seeking refuge in its symbolic inviolability, he waited, loathing every second that ticked by. A bitterly cold wind blew through him, whipping at his coat and trying to rip the skin from his face; he moved closer to the open ambulance doors, closer to the light and heat pouring out of the vehicle and the comfortingly familiar smells of bleach and antiseptic.

It wasn't enough to make him feel better. Where the hell were they? _Why was it taking so long to find one man_?

Because Lloyd knew there was only the one man in there: Dominic Hughes, convicted arsonist, murderer and, now, kidnapper. But not, and let's be clear here, a pyromaniac, despite the file they're received from that hack of a psychiatrist, Madison. Oh no. Hughes was just your standard self-obsessed sick bastard, like most murderers. Nothing uncontrolled about him. His type of nasty was deliberate.

The man's ex-wife and son, whom he'd kidnapped, wouldn't be in there. He'd told Charlie that. He hoped they weren't wasting time (and risking their lives) looking for them, ignoring Lloyd's advice. They would have to help the state police find Meredith and Conner Hughes later, along with whatever other firetraps Hughes might have set. Of these facts, Lloyd was certain, so it shouldn't be taking this long to—

Another gun shot, and the window shattered off to the left, spraying glass everywhere. Rifles turned in that direction, like an orchestra's bows rising in sync before the next note.

Lloyd uncurled from his instinctive cringe, and buried his hands deeper into his pockets, dropping his head closer to his chest.

Odd thing, pyromania was one of those disorders Lloyd could actually understand—watching fire consume things was strangely beautiful. It was the aftereffects he couldn't stomach. He'd seen enough charred bodies in his lifetime to kill any need in himself to give into that sort of mania.

At least, he hoped so. A tiny part of him was never quite sure about his own sanity.

_Focus, Lloyd_.

This is about Hughes. Hughes…the man who might be killing his team right now, while he cowered outside, safe in a sea of flashing lights. Sick, twisted Dominic Hughes, not a pyromaniac…worse. _Do something, Lloyd! Help them! _He took a step forward….

He jumped when the front door suddenly banged open, and crowded closer to the ambulance doors.

And then he smiled.

"Never a doubt in my mind," he said to the two paramedics standing nearby, his voice cracking slightly. They both flashed smiles in return—the brunette even laughed a little.

Standing up a little straighter, relief dripping down his spine, he catalogued the scene, trapping it in his mind and filing it with the information he had stored on this particular fugitive. Like a release valve, the fear disappeared, replaced by the analyst, the psychiatrist, the scientist writing the next medical journal entry. When he published again, this particular waste of humanity was going to share a chapter with Christian Beaumont, to contrast their psychoses….

Ray, limping from what looked like a nasty laceration to his left thigh, pulled (and a furious Shea shoved) Hughes towards the gathered police cruisers and fire engines. Charlie and Erica – both looking none the worse for wear – stopped halfway, to stand in the shadow of the waning day, bodies taut with tension, waiting to see the fugitive cuffed.

It was a bit of a ritual now. None of them really relaxed until cuffs snapped closed and the fugitive was put into the back of a squad car.

The escaped con kept his head up the whole time he was hauled along, eyes darting back and forth over the crowd of uniformed men awaiting him, red, blue and yellow flashing lights reflecting off the man's pale, white face like carnival lights.

And then Hughes smiled slightly.

Lloyd stiffened.

Like a broken dam, officers swarmed forward, taking the fugitive from Ray's hold, drawing him in close, pulling his arms roughly behind his back. Despite the roaring wind, the sharp snap of metal handcuffs seemed to echo like a gunshot. Shea visibly deflated, and, in the background, Lloyd caught Erica put her head down in relief. Another one caught, another month off. Lloyd would normally be feeling it too, but….

That smile.

Ray reached the ambulance and sat down heavily on the edge of the open rear compartment, pressing a hand against his battered leg. Shea leaned against the side of the ambulance next to Lloyd, wiping a hand across bloodied lips, and gave him a small nod. Lloyd just frowned, and returned his attention to the officers holding the convict.

"What, not even a 'good job, fellas?'" Shea asked, sounding affronted. "Next time, you go inside and tackle the crazy white dude with nothing but a tire iron, and I'll wait outside with the pretty female paramedics."

Lloyd felt Ray tap his leg then, and he looked down.

"You were right," Ray told him, gesturing towards the house. "Ex-wife and kid weren't in there with him." He rubbed at his leg as he continued, grimacing slightly. "Charlie and Erica are going to see if there's anything inside that can tell us where he's holding them. He wants you in there with them."

The words were meaningless, other than to alert Lloyd to the fact that Erica and Charlie had turned around, and were headed back to the house.

"What?" Lloyd said. Over by the squad cars, the fugitive was a boiling mass inside the knot of policemen. Hughes had started to fight, not wanting to be put in the car. The cops were arguing with him, their shouts lost in the high winds.

"I said—" Ray began.

"I heard you," Lloyd snapped. That wasn't what he was asking. The arsonist had _smiled_, and it had been an excited smile, a sick, twisted turn of his lips, eyes bright with obvious anticipation, waiting for…for….

"No," he whispered. He looked over at Charlie and Erica—just feet away from the house steps. "No! Charlie!" he shouted. "Erica! Come back!" They couldn't hear him, not over the wind. They were too far away. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Charlie! Erica!"

Shea grabbed his arm. "What's the matter?"

"Lloyd?" Ray pushed a paramedic aside to stand up. "What is it?"

"No time!" Lloyd answered. "Charlie!" he shouted. It was no use—they just couldn't hear him. He looked down, saw the gun in Ray's holster. Without thinking, he grabbed it and started running towards the house, ignoring Ray's furious shouts behind him.

"Charlie! Erica!" Flipping off the safety, he raised the gun above his head and fired three shots into the air. "Charlie! Stop!"

Charlie turned, and so did Erica, her foot on the bottom step.

"Come back!" he yelled, and used his free hand to wave them back, bringing the gun down. "Stop! Come back! The house is rigged—"

The sharp pain in his back was a shock, like being bitten by a bee he hadn't seen. His eyes widened in realization…and then his head smacked the dirt and the world went black.

* * *

Erica screamed when the shot rang out, Lloyd staggering like he'd been punched in the back.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, boneless, like a dropped marionette.

"Lloyd!" Charlie was already running towards him as he yelled, and Erica was shaken from her shock, moving fast across the frozen yard to catch up.

The world exploded, and Erica felt herself lifted off the ground, as if someone had grabbed her and pulled her briefly upwards. She hit the ground hard a heartbeat later and rolled, dirt and stones grinding into her face, hair and body. Her hip hit something hard, and a dull but deep pain rolled up and down her left side.

When she stopped moving, she simply breathed, trying to get her bearings. She couldn't hear anything but the rushing of the wind, pressing down on her, hot and freezing cold, all at the same time. A chunk of flaming wood hit the ground to her right, just inches from her hand, searing her face with heat. She shifted away, only to find more flaming pieces of wood encircling and smacking down around her.

Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she blinked at the sight of the house engulfed in flames, a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire billowing out the top.

* * *

Ray had just grabbed the still warm rifle away from the young policeman, the boy's eyes full of fear, when the house exploded. As if in slow motion, he saw Charlie and Erica thrown forward, hitting the ground and rolling like they weighed nothing.

Shea, who had been running towards Lloyd's unmoving form, looked like he'd been walloped, landing hard on his ass, throwing his hands over his face.

"Oh my god," the policeman whispered, falling back a step as the wave of heat blew over them. "That's why he…he was…."

"Yeah," Ray breathed. _Fuck._

"Oh God. I'm so sorry." The officer sounded crushed. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know."

Ray barely heard him. Using the rifle as a crutch, he jogged awkwardly towards his fallen team, grunting at every other footfall.

The paramedics were faster—they were already to Shea, checking on him. Ray saw Shea wave them off, pointing towards the others. Ray reached Shea just as the other man got to his feet. Together, they stumbled over to where one of the paramedics was now bent over Lloyd.

"Is he-?" Shea's question was also Ray's; the fading light was still strong enough to show the growing, black bloodstain. The earth was too frozen to absorb any of it.

"He's alive," the woman replied, tipping Lloyd up a little to see under his body. Her gaze was sharp as she looked up, straight at Shea. "You want to help, run back to the ambulance and grab me a blanket and the kit I was about to use on your friend there." Her eyes caught Ray's, indicating he was the "friend," before returning her attention to Shea. Ray didn't see the need to correct her assumption, just nodded at Shea when the younger man glanced at him before turning to do as the paramedic asked.

"Is he going to be okay?" Ray asked then.

The paramedic wasn't looking at him anymore, focused on doing something to Lloyd's back. "Bullet's still inside him," she said, not really answering, then added, "We…we'll do our best." She pressed down, and Lloyd moaned softly. She looked up at Ray, eyes betraying her nervousness. "Who shot him? The convict? Are we in danger?"

Ray held back a lot of different answers to that, most of them born of the anger he bottled up deep inside. Instead he looked towards the burning house.

"No. Don't worry," he said. "There won't be any more shooting." He frowned and turned to head towards the house. "I need to go check on the others."

He was grateful to see that Charlie was on his feet, mostly, bent over with his hands on his knees. Erica was still on the ground, trying to push off the hands of the other paramedic as she obviously tried to keep Erica down. He heard more than saw Shea skid to his knees next to the paramedic by Lloyd, breathlessly shoving a medical kit towards her and asking what else he could do. The last thing Ray heard was the paramedic barking out more orders, probably to Shea and to the other police officers who had stumbled up to join them.

"Hey, Zancanelli! Hold up."

He didn't turn around at the stranger's voice. Instead, he started walking away, heading towards Charlie and Erica, trying to ignore the pain every time his hurt leg hit the ground.

"Zancanelli! Hey! Wait, damn it!"

Erica finally shoved the paramedic and stood up to her full height, looking almost regal against the flaming backdrop. She pointed at the paramedic, then pointed towards Lloyd. Ray almost smiled. Charlie was also upright now, and when the paramedic approached him, he waved him off and also pointed towards Lloyd. Ray stopped moving, relief washing through him like a wave.

"Hey!"

A hand grabbed his arm, turning him, and Ray stumbled when he put too much weight on his bad leg. He instantly lashed out in pain and anger, shoving at whoever had grabbed him.

The police captain – what was his name? Riley? – stumbled backwards a couple of steps, and then stopped. Standing up straight, the captain glared at Ray.

"Uncalled for, Zancanelli," he snapped, rubbing at his chest where Ray had hit him.

Ray just upped an eyebrow. _Hell yes_, it was called for. This idiot was supposed to be back-up, here to protect his team, not shoot them!

"Look," the captain said, raising a hand to him, "I'm just here to talk about what just happened with your con there. I'm guessing, based on the explosion, that he wasn't running away."

"You assume right," Ray growled. "And his name is Lowery."

"With Lowery," the captain said, tilting his head in a half nod. "What my officer did—"

"Was wrong," Ray finished. "He was dead wrong."

The captain frowned. "I'm not here to apologize for Officer Chase, Zancanelli. I'm here to make sure we're on the same page. Chase only acted as you instructed. He saw one of the cons you're working with running with a gun in his hand. He couldn't hear what the con was yelling, just that he looked like he was going to shoot Marshal DuChamp. He couldn't know—"

"If I thought Lloyd was dangerous, I would have given you the order to shoot him myself," Ray snarled. "I didn't give that order."

Riley's eye twitched. "Officer Chase heard you yell to Lowery to stop and come back. He also said you yelled at Lowery to drop the weapon he'd stolen. Chase took your words to mean—"

"I never said to shoot him!"

Riley continued as if he hadn't heard. "He took your words to mean that Lowery was acting out, and was dangerous. He—"

"Wasn't given the order to fire."

"He couldn't know—"

"He didn't need to know! Your man made a bad call."

The captain lifted his chin. "I disagree."

"Like hell! He shot my man in the back. How is that _not_ a bad call?"

"We are trained to shoot criminals who are running away—"

"He wasn't running away!"

"How were we supposed to know that? He had your gun!"

"Because—"

"Because what?" Riley snapped. "Because he's the exception to what we've been trained? _You're_ the one who told us to watch them! Told us to be wary, to make sure they didn't step out of line, told us they were dangerous. I have no idea what any of these three have done, or what they're capable of, but a convicted con running and shooting a gun looked pretty damned out of line to me! We're cops! He's a criminal. That's what we do!"

Ray frowned. He was losing this argument. He looked away, pivoting on his good leg to look down at Lowery on the ground, and saw Shea looking up at him, his gaze hooded. He'd heard. The con's expression was unreadable in this light, but whatever Shea was thinking right then, it couldn't be good.

Captain Riley cleared his throat. "Listen. I'm going to assume that you are arguing with me out of anger, Zancanelli, and concern over Mr. Lowery—"

"Doctor," Ray said softly, still looking at Shea. "Dr. Lowery." Next to Shea, Lloyd was being lifted up onto a stretcher, his skin paler than the gray blanket now covering him. Shea stayed with the stretcher as was wheeled over to the ambulance.

Riley was still talking. "…And recall that you yourself told us who these people are and what our jobs were meant to be." The captain completed his statement with a huff, tugging down his jacket and lifting his chin. "Officer Chase did nothing wrong, and I will testify as much before the review board."

The paramedic carefully stuffed an IV bag under Lowery's head, and then rested a hand against his chest. Suddenly, she was standing on the edge of the gurney, shouting for oxygen, the words "respiratory arrest" clear as she tipped Lloyd's head back to help him breathe. Shea stepped back as the other paramedic swooped in, the two blocking Ray's clear view of Lloyd.

Suddenly seeing red, Ray turned and stepped closer to Riley, forcing the captain to take a step back.

"I don't give a shit what you do, Riley. We told you to only act upon the orders delivered by either me or Marshal DuChamp. Your man acted on his own, and if Lowery dies, it will be his fault. He, and you, can make peace with your own fuckin' chain of command, because you're not getting _anything_ from me."

"Now, hang on. If you think you can threaten me or any of my men, Zancanelli, I think you need to remember who wears the badge here."

Ray's eyes narrowed. "Is that right?" he asked softly.

Riley frowned and opened his mouth as if to say something more, but he shut it again when someone bumped lightly into Ray's side.

"Everything alright here?" Charlie asked, his voice pitched a little louder than necessary. Ray glanced at him, then back at Riley.

"No. But I don't feel like talking to this asshole anymore. He's all yours."

Pivoting on his good leg, he limped away to join the others at the ambulance. Erica was standing with her arms wrapped tightly around her thin frame, looking lost. As Ray joined them, she shifted to his side, close enough for him to wrap his arm around her. He didn't.

But he wanted to. He tucked his arms close by his sides instead.

"What's happening?" he asked, seeing the two paramedics working on Lloyd still. Shea was nearby, hovering. Funny, Ray didn't think Shea liked Lloyd all that much.

"They inserted an airway," Erica said. "Something about a lung collapsing. I think they're breathing for him now." Her voice sounded small. She moved a little closer, close enough for him to smell her hair. It smelled like smoke.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Almost wasn't. He probably saved our lives."

"Definitely saved your lives," Shea said sharply, looking across at Erica. "You'd be brisket right now otherwise." He looked at Ray when he finished, lips snarling slightly and resting a hand on Lloyd's shin, as if protective. "Isn't that right, Ray?"

Ray frowned. "Shea—"

"Okay," the paramedic said then, waving Shea away. "Step back, please sir." As he moved, the two paramedics tipped up the stretcher and slid it into the ambulance. The brunette climbed in after Lloyd.

"Can I ride with him?" Shea asked suddenly. The blonde paramedic closing the doors smiled slightly, but shook her head.

"No. But we're taking him to Mercy General. You can meet us there." She gave a wan smile to Ray. "You need to come in anyway, for that leg. I'm sure one of the officers will give you a ride."

"Yeah," Ray said, not really thinking about his leg right then. All three of them backed up then as the paramedic locked the doors and jogged around to the front. A beat later, the ambulance was gone in a flash of lights and blaring sirens.

Erica and Shea turned to face Ray, their eyes questioning. Ray couldn't blame them. They still had two kidnapped people to find out there somewhere, and a case to finish. But they wanted to go with Lloyd. Ray did too. He wanted to believe that he didn't care, but….

Thankfully, Charlie strode over at that exact moment and took charge.

"Ray, have one of these officers take you to the hospital for your leg. And then you stick with Lowery. Shea, Erica, you're with me. We still have Hughes's kidnapped ex-wife and kid to find."

* * *

TBC …

_For those who don't know me, I tend to post a chapter a day, or every other day, depending on how busy I am at work. I do this because I revise/tweak before I post each chapter, trying to spot things like those damn homophones. But I always finish my stories. _


	2. Chapter 2

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**: **COLD**

Julianne sat in her chair, hands resting on the keyboard, trying to still the trembling. Someone in Redkill's Police Department must have leaked the news of the manhunt (against what she knew had been strict orders by Charlie), and now she was watching live as the news copter hovered over the brightly burning house. She couldn't see the faces of anyone on the ground, not against the darkening night, but she still tried to see the team, to recognize a gait, a flash of clothing or even something as simple as Erica's ponytail.

She jumped a mile when her phone rang. Nearly dropping it on the floor when she grabbed for it, saw the ID and shakily pressed it to her ear, smiling in relief.

"Charlie?"

"Hey Julianne."

"What happened?" She looked again at the TV screen. "The house…it's all over the news. I saw it go up. Is everyone okay?"

Charlie didn't answer immediately, and something inside her clenched tightly.

"Charlie?" she asked. "Are you still—"

"Yeah, Julianne. Still here. Uh…No…no one was hurt badly in the explosion. It caused some bumps and bruises, that's all."

She relaxed again, and smiled. "Did you catch the fugitive?"

"Yeah." He sounded weird. Her smile faded.

"But…," she prompted.

"But we didn't find his ex-wife and kid," he finished. "He's got them locked up somewhere else, probably sitting on another ticking time bomb. Lloyd was right."

"Yeah." She frowned slightly, still looking at the burning house. "He usually is." She straightened in her seat. "So what do you need me to do?"

"We're on our way to Redkill police station, to help the local police and the FBI interview Hughes. He's so high on having blown up the house, he might give something away. But in case he doesn't…."

"You want me to go through the list Lloyd and I put together of likely locations."

"Yes. We've been studying Hughes for longer than the FBI has, they're going to need our help."

She gave a nod, pulling the file folder with the list closer. "Is Lloyd going with you, for the interview? Because, to be honest, I could probably use his help to narrow this list down."

"No."

"Oh." She looked up, her gaze lifting to the TV screen again. "So he's coming back here?"

Charlie was silent again, and when it went on too long, Julianne felt her whole body grow cold. She shifted her gaze away from the TV to look at her computer, the file, and then the TV again. She blinked slowly.

"Charlie?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper. Her throat felt like it was closing up on her; she could barely get his name out.

"He was shot, Julianne. The local PD did it, but it was an accident. He's on his way to the hospital here in Redkill. I don't…I don't know if he'll be okay. I'm sorry."

She didn't move. The coldness became ice, freezing her hands, her legs, her voice. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest, trying to break through the encasing ice.

Charlie was still talking. "Ray's headed over there with him. He hurt his leg – a deep gash and maybe a twisted ankle, but he should be fine."

Julianne wanted to say something, but she couldn't.

"Look, I didn't want to tell you." Charlie sounded terrible, his voice low and deep, as it often was when he was shaken. "I didn't want you to worry but…If the explosion is on the news, the press will be trying to get the name of whomever was hurt. You need to get on the phone and stop them from releasing that information. Have the hospital admit him as John Doe, just as back up. And make sure what we all have 24 hour visiting privileges—use the fact that he's a prisoner—because I want to make sure one of us is with him when he wakes up. There might be some issues with the Redkill PD, and I don't want them allowed to see him, okay? Also…" She heard him sigh. "I've been thinking about this and, since I don't really know how bad it is….I think you should probably call Lloyd's mother. You, uh, you have her number right?"

Julianne shivered. The phone felt too hot against her ear, searingly warm against her cold, cold, cold skin.

"Julianne?"

She grunted. It was the best she could manage.

"Julianne," Charlie's voice changed again, more commanding, "Don't freak out."

_Oh yeah, because being ordered not to freak out always helps people who are freaking out_. Out loud, she just hummed slightly.

"Look, you need to keep it together. We've got a woman and a ten year old kid to find, and if we can't get this guy to talk, that list is our best bet. In fact…." He hummed briefly. "In fact," he said again, "why don't you fax it to Redkill's PD? We've got enough local LEOs to cover all of Dutchess County. Now that we have the runner, and they've seen what he's capable of, they should be able to knock on all those doors within 24 hours without too much risk."

She looked down at the file.

"Julianne, come on. Answer me."

She felt like she was trying to weight-lift 200 pounds, forcing a word up. "I—" She breathed, drew on something deep inside, and tried again. "I…I'll send the fax. And, um…his mother, I—"

"Send me her phone number in a text. I'll do it."

She hated the disappointment in his voice, but she couldn't deny the acute relief she felt. She nodded, and, when she realized he couldn't see her, she said, "Thank you."

"Sure."

"You…you need anything else?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah. Lloyd came up with that list because he thought those were the most likely places the fugitive would be. But he said he thought the ex-wife and kid would be somewhere else. Can you remember what he said?"

"I do," Erica said then, sounding nearby, and Julianne flushed when she realized she'd been on speaker this whole time and they'd all heard her freeze up. "He said that Hughes was burning down places where he'd felt victimized or abandoned—the foster home where he'd been abused, the store his father left him in, the home where his mother died, and so on. But kidnapping his ex and kid was about something else; Hughes wanted to show he had power over them, particularly his ex, for leaving him. Because of that, he wouldn't choose a place where he felt like a victim—"

"He'd pick someplace opposite, a place where he felt in _control_," Shea finished. "Where would a fire freak like that most feel in control?"

Julianne shook her head, fingering the file in front of her. It was a list of every place that Hughes had ever lived, worked, gone to school, or vacationed. It also had relatives' houses, churches, and even places where he might have hung out as a kid, based on conversations with people who knew him as a child. The incarceration psychiatrist's profile on him was, in Lloyd's words, remarkably complete, even if the conclusions had been all wrong…_Madison must have been angling to publish it_, _but the writing is atrocious and the conclusions a joke. No one would print this hack unless they too suffered from a severe form of mental illness or wore a "I'm with stupid" T-Shirt that pointed to themselves…. _Julianne smiled, seeing Lloyd dancing around the office as he ranted, arms flailing, smiling whenever he caught her eye.

"Julianne!"

Charlie's shout shook her from her reverie, dropping the phone. Scrambling, she quickly pressed it to her ear again. "Yes, yes, sorry, I—"

Charlie cut her off. "Does Erica's description make sense with any of the places on your list?"

She blinked, fiddling with the paper. "I don't know. I'll go through it."

"And think outside the box too," Charlie added. "Research pyromania, fire-setting, anything that might be of use. And go through Dr. Madison's file again on Hughes. Lloyd may have missed something—I don't want to leave any stone unturned. See if you can think of anywhere else that might be a location for this guy to focus on."

She nodded. "Will do."

"Right. See you in a few hours."

"Okay, I—"

Dial tone. He'd hung up on her. She swallowed, put the phone down, and looked at the TV screen. They were replaying the house explosion, starting with the moments right before the house went up. This time she could see the ambulance in the bottom right corner…and a figure in a familiar gray coat hunched there, looking small. Funny how quickly she spotted him this time.

She saw him start to run towards the house. Then he fell…and the house exploded. She huffed, feeling the ice creeping over her again. Was he okay? Was he with people who cared? Was he warm enough? She wrapped her arms around her chest, gripping them tightly in her hands.

Was he alive?

* * *

Lloyd faded in and out on the way to the hospital, lights and people swirling around his head like dream images. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt right.

He was cold, though. Bone cold—that sort of cold where you knew, no matter how warm it was, you would never feel it. Not deep down.

He wasn't in pain, though, not really. He felt like he was floating, which he knew was the result of the drugs he was on. He tried to guess which ones, and a litany of drug names spiraled through his head as if they'd been waiting for the chance to be remembered.

His mind was like that, sometimes. He'd open a door, and stuff he didn't even know he knew would come bounding out, filling his mind with nonsense information.

He tried to speak, but his mouth was being held open by something hard and unyielding. Airway. They were breathing for him.

Oh god…. He started to shake. He couldn't stop.

One of the paramedics from before leaned over, holding onto his arms, latex gloves rubbing roughly against his skin. She smiled down at him…Jane? Her name had been Jane. She'd been nice. Smart. Pretty. Nervous regarding what might happen when and if they caught the fugitive in that house, about how many might get hurt. He'd talked to her to calm her down, asked her about some things in the ambulance he hadn't seen before…back when he used to know everything an EMT could handle or do. He felt momentarily at a loss, outdated, but her descriptions of the newer equipment showed him that he wasn't so far off in his guesses of what things were. It'd been nice. He'd felt whole again, talking medicine with her.

Whole. Ha. There's irony for you, considering he was now literally carrying a hole in his shoulder. Back. Wherever. Had it hit a lung? Is that why they were breathing for him?

He couldn't move his arms. Why couldn't he move his arms? Oh…wait, yes he could move them. They just felt heavy. Really heavy. How could they be heavy, and shake at the same time? And be so cold?

Jane was saying something. He couldn't understand her. He tried to focus on her lips. They were pretty lips.

He couldn't read lips. He should learn. How hard could it be?

He drifted off again as the ambulance came to an abrupt halt and the doors opened to admit a whole mess of people. Last thing he thought about were her lips.

* * *

Charlie lowered the phone from his ear, and stared at it for a moment.

"What?" Shea asked. "Was that Lloyd's mother?"

"Yeah," Charlie replied, still not quite sure exactly what had just happened.

"She going to go see him?" Erica asked, jumping up and down a little in the cold air. They were standing outside the police station. Charlie had wanted to call Lowery's mother before going in. The wind was still frigid.

He shook his head. He didn't know.

"You mean she's not?" Erica asked then.

Charlie grimaced, replaying the odd conversation in his head. He was trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "I could barely get a word in edgewise. When I asked if she wanted to visit him, she hung up on me."

Shea lifted an eyebrow. "That's cold, man. I'm beginning to understand why Lloyd's as messed up as he is."

Charlie couldn't disagree. Grimacing slightly, he tried to put it out of his mind. Lloyd wasn't his priority right now. They had a case to finish.

"Come on," he said, climbing up the steps into the police station. "We've got work to do."

"Umm…" Shea frowned as he looked at the doors. "Do I have to?"

Charlie frowned in confusion. "What, you want to stay out here? It's freezing."

"I could stay in the car," Shea suggested.

Charlie's confusion only grew. "Why? Why would you—"

"Because they shot Lloyd, Charlie," Erica said, shifting from side to side now, rubbing her arms vigorously. "I don't want to go in there either."

Charlie sighed. "Oh."

"Yeah," Erica scowled. "Oh."

Charlie gave her a dark look. "Well, sorry, but we don't have a choice. We have a job to do, and a woman and her ten year old son to find." He arched an eyebrow. "How old is your daughter again, Erica?" It was a low tactic, but sometimes….

Erica's set her jaw, but she turned and jogged up the stairs to the station. Charlie turned and gave Shea a look, raising his eyebrows.

"Definitely cold," Shea muttered, but he followed Erica up the steps.

* * *

Ray suffered through being stuffed in a wheelchair and wheeled into the emergency room, feeling like an idiot. He looked around for Lloyd, but there was no sign of him. He frowned.

"Hey," he said, nudging the cop who had come in with him, a beat cop who looked mildly annoyed at being a ferry service. "Can you find out what happened to Lowery?"

"The con?" the cop asked.

Ray frowned, but didn't rise to the bait. "Yeah. The con."

"Sure thing."

The cop walked away, rounding a corner, leaving Ray alone. He had been wheeled into what was ostensibly a waiting area. Apparently, since he wasn't bleeding out, he wasn't a priority.

After about thirty seconds, he couldn't stand it anymore.

He pushed up out of the chair, and hobbled after the cop.

Rounding the corner, he saw the cop standing in the hallway, chatting up a nurse. Ray's hands gripped into fists, but he didn't react. He wouldn't react. He had to keep control.

Looking to his right, he saw what had to be the admitting desk. Stumbling a little, he made it to the desk and leaned against it heavily. The nurse behind it looked up, smiled and stood up.

"I'm sorry, sir. I saw you come in, and I promise you, we will get to your leg—"

"I'm not here about that."

She blinked, her smile faltering slightly. "Oh?"

"I want to know what happened to the guy who was brought in before me, the one with the gunshot wound. Name's Lowery, Lloyd Lowery."

"Um," she frowned, and looked down at her computer, and then up again. "Are you family, Mr. Lowery?"

"No, he's Lowery. I'm Ray Zancanelli, and I was his arresting officer." _Once upon a time._

Her eyes widened slightly, and she blushed, looking down again. "Oh," she said again. She typed a little, and then a little more. And then she stopped, frowned, and typed something else.

"Really?" Ray asked. "How many gunshot wounds have you seen come through here in the last ten minutes?"

"Oh, uh…" She looked nervous. "It's not that, sir, I just…. I'm getting some sort of wall. The man they brought in…." She shook her head, and typed something else. Then she frowned deeply. "I don't understand this. I found him, but they've admitted him as a Prisoner John Doe." She looked up. "Is there some reason for that?"

Ray frowned, this time in confusion. "Uh…" Julianne must have done that. Or Charlie. "Look, I just…. What can you tell me about the John Doe?"

"Um…." She typed some more. "He went straight up to surgery. Fifth floor. It'll be hours yet."

"Oh. Right. Thanks." He stepped away from the counter, and nearly collapsed as his leg gave away. Hissing a swear, he noticed that, at some point, his bandage must have slipped. There was a growing pool of blood around his foot, and he's just slipped on it. "Shit."

It was a lot of blood. He blinked slowly, and his hand found the counter, suddenly needing it to hold himself up.

The nurse was on her feet, looking down at the floor. Then she was around the counter, calling for help as Ray's vision started to gray.

"Hang on, Mr. Zancanelli," she said, her voice echoing, as if calling down to him at the bottom of a well. His vision was really dim now. "Jerry," she yelled, "get over here, now! I can't hold—"

* * *

TBC…

Poor Ray.

(By the way, anyone have any solutions to the disappearing line breaks problem this site has? I've never found a good one.)


	3. Chapter 3

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE: SMALL SKIRMISHES**

Ray woke slowly, lethargy pulling at every muscle, his eyelids feeling like they were about ten times too heavy. But he knew he had to wake up. There was something important….

When his eyes finally opened, and he saw the institutional ceiling tiles and the pale blue curtains surrounding him, it flooded back in a rush.

"Lloyd!" he sat bolt upright, only to get a hand smacked to his chest so hard in stung.

"Down, boy! Don't move!"

His eyebrows lifted, and he blinked some more, focusing in confusion on the tiny woman who'd slapped his chest and was now glaring at him with eyes that were far too old to be inside such an incredibly young face. The horned rimmed glasses that looked like they were about to fall off the edge of her snub nose was just the icing on the cake.

"What?"

"Stay, I said!" She pointed at the bed. "I've only sewn up about half of this insanely huge gash in your leg, and unless you want your scar to look like someone permanently stuck an inchworm to your leg, you will stay still for at least five more minutes, get me?"

Ray's eyebrows felt like they were in his hairline. If he still had a hairline.

He looked at his leg and saw that, sure enough, she was carefully holding sewing tools in one hand while she berated him with the other, and said sewing tools were connected by a healthy looking line of thread to his leg. He wasn't feeling any of it, except as a light tickling.

"Oh," he said finally.

"That's right," she said. "Brighter than you look, big man." She pushed the glasses back up her nose, and leaned down to peer at his leg.

"How, um…" He frowned, still trying to get his bearings. "How long was I out?"

"Not long," she replied, returning to sewing, doing that cool curling thing he'd seen every doctor do that had sewn up some piece of him. And he'd been sewn up a lot.

He waited for more detail on how long he'd been unconscious. When it didn't come, he grimaced.

"How long is 'not long?'"

She sighed. "I don't know. Not long. A few minutes. Long enough for them to lug you in here, hook you up to some fluids, and for them to drag me away from patients who really need me."

_Minutes — there'd be no news on Lloyd yet, then._

"Patients who really need you, eh?" he said, smirking slightly. "What were you really doing? Updating your Facebook status to 'bitter and hostile'?'"

She flashed a wan smile. "Actually, I was talking to your mother. She says you need to be nicer to people who can make your leg look like it belongs to Frankenstein's Monster."

"I thought it was going to look like an inchworm."

"You want me to make it my initials, big guy? Settle down. You're almost done."

Ray frowned as she quickly and expertly finished sewing, guessing that the fact that he couldn't feel it meant he'd be off the leg for a while.

"What's the diagnosis?" he asked.

"You'll live."

"I figured that."

"And you'll walk again."

"Good to know. Any idea when?"

"Someday."

"You're just so helpful."

"I try."

"Seriously, can you at least tell me—?"

"Despite passing out like a girl from a little blood loss, you'll be up and around by tomorrow, but on crutches. And you better stay off this leg, or you'll be annoying some other poor, overworked intern in another hospital, wondering why your leg isn't healing and 'what's all this green pussy stuff about?' So, you stay off it. Tonight, you stay here."

"I'm planning on staying here anyway."

"Peachy."

"Passing out like a girl? Really?"

She smiled again. "Okay. Like a man. Girl's don't pass out from blood loss, we're too tough."

"Funny."

"You will also feel weak for some time. Don't exercise for a couple of weeks; let your body get back to normal. It might be a good time to take that Bahamas booze cruise you've been planning and get some rest."

"Booze cruise."

"Oh, sorry, you in AA? Forget the booze part then."

"I don't do cruises."

"Really? Because you look like a cruise man to me."

"I've no idea why."

"It's the turtleneck and leather jacket combo. I'm having flashbacks to the Love Boat."

Ray had absolutely no idea what that meant. He snorted. "You're whacked, you know that?"

"Trust me, I'm well aware. I've been hit three times in the last four weeks. It's getting tiresome."

"And yet, you keep talking like you do."

"I blame 48 hour shifts and a pair of three year old twins at home. What's your excuse?"

Ray frowned. "I got someone upstairs in surgery, trying to survive having been shot in the back. That's my excuse."

She'd been in the process of tying off the stitches when he said that, and she actually stopped mid-swoop. When she resumed a heartbeat later, she grimaced.

"Sorry."

He shrugged at that. "Actually, can you help me find out what's going on with him? He's booked under Prisoner John Doe."

She glanced at him, her gaze measuring. Finally, she shrugged, returning to her work.

"The prisoner? Yeah, I saw him when they wheeled him upstairs. Are you the one who brought him in?"

"Sort of," Ray replied. He licked his lips. "Look, can you…Can you find out for me how he is? I need to know he's going to be okay."

"You need to, huh?" She frowned slightly, still eyeing him as if under a microscope whenever she look away from her sewing. "Why? Were you the one who shot him?"

Ray frowned. "No, nothing like that. I just want to make sure he's okay."

She watched him a moment longer, and then shrugged, looking down to tie off the last stitch. "I'll see what I can find out." Finished, she snapped the thread and started cleaning up her things.

"And I want to be there when he wakes up."

Her frown deepened, not looking at him. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. We've had a few inmates here from Fishkill over the years, and…and they tend to do better when there isn't a cop staring at them like they're garbage the moment they wake up."

Ray grimaced. "It ain't like that."

"I don't know. You got that look."

"Look?"

She hesitated, and then shook her head. "I've seen it on a lot of cop's faces over the years. Most of the time they have reason, but—"

Ray shook his head. "Please, whatever it is you're thinking, that ain't me." _Liar. _"Someone he…" _Trusts? Likes? Isn't scared of?_ "…Someone he knows should be there."

She continued to clean up, putting things on a small tray, but didn't say anything.

"Please," he tried again. "At least wheel me up there to the room he'll be in, Doctor…um…."

"Nguyen."

"Dr. Nguyen."

She lifted the tray up by her side. "People need rest after surgery, and they need support from friends and family." She looked up at him over her glasses. "Are you his friend?"

Ray just stared at her, his brain freezing for a moment. At his continued silence, she nodded once and looked down at her tray.

"At least you didn't lie," she said, turning her back to him. "I'll find out for you what I can. And if no one else comes," she hesitated briefly, "I suppose someone should be there."

With that, she walked out through the curtains, leaving Ray alone.

He tipped his head down, chin to chest…and then slammed his fist into the bed.

...

* * *

...

Erica sighed as she watched Charlie question Dominick Hughes through the one-way mirror; Charlie was rubbing his hand over his scalp in obvious exasperation for the third time in as many minutes.

In an interrogation, the goal is to wear down the one being interrogated, not the other way around. Unfortunately, that only works if the one being interrogated is _sane._

"Dude's too messed up for this," Shea muttered. "He needs a psychiatrist to mess with his mind, not a cop and a marshal just trying to get him to talk."

"Unfortunately, the best psychiatrist for the job was gunned down in cold blood." As Erica spoke, she scowled at one of the cops in the room with her, who was watching them both like a hawk. Shea could look away, but she couldn't help herself. She had to release some of the rage she felt….even while she worked as hard as she could to keep a lid on the rest of it.

And this long, long, long wait was not helping. She wanted to get the hell out of here. Away from the local cops who all looked at them like _they _were the ones about to set their precious city on fire. She wanted to find that woman and her kid and just…just…make sure Lloyd was okay.

A couple feet away, Shea was leaning up against the one-way glass, looking as tightly wound as she did. She couldn't blame him. It had been almost four hours, and neither Charlie, nor anyone else, had managed to get anything more out of Dominick Hughes than smirks and winks. It was nearing midnight, and Erica's eyes burned with exhaustion. And if one more cop curled his lip at her, she was going to rip that lip off his face. She wanted out.

She wanted out of here _now._

"You look like a stretched rubber band," Shea said then, looking directly at her, "one that's about to snap."

She gritted her teeth together, to stop herself from shouting. He wasn't the one she wanted to shout at. But she was _this_ close….

"Right." Shea stood up. "This is stupid." Before she could stop him, he was banging on the glass. Everyone in the interrogation room on the other side jumped slightly, and looked at the window. Everyone except Hughes. He didn't look like he could be startled by the world ending right now.

Charlie's shoulders slumped, but he stood and walked to the wall next to the mirror, to click the intercom.

"What?" he snapped.

"This is a waste of time," Shea said. "We don't need his help. We know how to find 'em. Let the locals spin their wheels here and let's just get the hell gone from here."

In response, Charlie just frowned, but, in the background, Hughes started to laugh.

"Oh, you're kidding," Hughes said, grinning from ear to ear. "Is this a new technique?"

Shea snorted. "Come on, Charlie. Stop wasting time with this crazy ass. We got this."

Charlie's eyes narrowed, looking at the floor. Erica couldn't tell if he was annoyed at the interruption, or considering Shea's suggestion seriously. She wanted it to be the latter.

"Shea's right, Charlie," she said, stepping closer to the com. "We don't need him."

"Just throw him back to the dogs," Shea said.

"Ha!" Hughes's eyes shone brightly. "If you think this'll fool me into—"

"Yeah, alright," Charlie said, cutting Hughes off. He actually smiled slightly then. "I'll see you in a minute."

Charlie let go the intercom on his side of the glass, and rounded on Hughes. For the first time, Hughes's smirk was a little less certain.

"Just tell me this," Charlie said, leaning against the interrogation table, and partially blocking the view of Hughes from Erica and Shea. "How long do they have, your ex-wife and kid?"

Hughes's smile deepened. "Like everyone else, Marshal." He cocked his head to the side. "They have until the bell tolls. And ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for—"

"Yeah, I get it." Charlie stood up, seemed to study Hughes for a moment, then nodded. "He's right. You are an idiot. Have fun back in hell, Hughes."

Hughes snorted another laugh. "I plan to, Marshal. Come back soon! This was fun."

Erica and Shea met him in the outer hall, and Charlie just signaled them both to follow him. Erica frowned, hurrying with Shea to catch up with Charlie as he started striding, accelerating as if he, too, didn't want to be inside this station a minute longer.

"What do you think it means?" Eric asked, coming up behind Charlie. "Until the bell tolls?"

"Probably the obvious," Charlie replied. "Somewhere nearby, there's a bell. When it rings, something's going explode, and I'm guessing a lot of people will get hurt. We're going to stop that from happening."

Oh man. "And if we can't?" Erica asked softly, realizing what they'd just done, giving up on the interrogation of Hughes.

Charlie snorted. "Don't go back on your word just yet, Erica, because I'm believing in the two of you right now. You best not let me down."

...

* * *

...

Julianne wiped at tired eyes and loosened the scarf around her neck. She was too warm now, overheated almost. To her left, the printer cranked out sheets of papers, lists of places, everything she could think of that could equate to a place a person might feel "in control." She'd extrapolated options from every conceivable location that Dominick Hughes might have visited in his life, from the Rhinebeck Aerodrome to the Vassar Campus in Poughkeepsie to the apple orchards around New Paltz. Anything that a kid, or a teenager, or young parent with a kid, might like to go. Places he might have been happy instead of sad.

Not that she knew a tremendous amount of what that would be, but she had read books. She knew what it was _supposed_ to be like. And it's not like her parents hadn't tried to get her to go to places like these—amusement parks, zoos, shows. All the time. More so as she got older, trying to draw her out. More so as…as she withdrew.

She yawned and rubbed a little at her aching forehead. _Focus. _She needed to take this list and cross-reference it against places that might have bells.

"Bells," she mused aloud, "of all things." Hughes had quoted John Donne, though, from what Charlie had told her over the phone an hour ago, had quoted him wrong. She'd almost corrected it while Charlie was telling the story. _It was "send not to know for whom the bell tolls," not "ask not for whom the bell tolls." Didn't everyone know that?_

She smirked. That was her inner Lloyd talking.

Her eyes closed. _He really, really needed to be okay_.

Sighing, she glanced up at the clock, frowning a little to see that it was now nearly two in the morning. Not that she wasn't unused to sleepless nights, but—

She leapt a mile when the door to the loft slid open, loud and terrifying. Holding her scarf tightly around her throat, she tried to calm her breathing as Charlie, Shea and Erica slumped into the room. They looked as exhausted as she felt.

"You're back," she said, a little unnecessarily.

"We're back," Shea agreed, moving to the desk he'd claimed as his own. Almost falling into the chair, he tipped his head back and pressed the butt of his palms to his eyes.

"You have that secondary list of locations?" Charlie asked, walking up to her. "Because, word is, they're not having any luck with Lloyd's list."

"Yeah," Julianne said, heading to the printer. The last sheet printed as she got there. "I've put together a list of another 300 more places where they could be."

"That many?" Erica's eyebrows lifted. "Based on…?"

"Based on places he might have wanted to go to, or had fun at, or visited for some other reason." She shrugged, and then yawned, hiding it behind her hand. "I figured, if he was burning down places where he felt victimized, then a place where he felt happy would be a place he'd feel in control. But there's not a lot in Dr. Madison's profile to suggest when Hughes was happy or what he liked."

"Prison shrinks don't focus on the happy," Erica said, leaning against her desk. "They're only interested in when thing started to go wrong."

To that, Julianne just nodded, looking down at the printed sheets in her hands. "I initially considered starting with places like where he got married, and where their son was born, but—"

"Lloyd already had those on his list," Shea said. "As negatives."

Julianne grimaced, but didn't look up. She couldn't understand why those places would be places that Dominick Hughes would hate.

"300 places," Charlie repeated. "Too many. There's no time to search that many."

"So we narrow it down," Erica said. "We can do that. For one, there's the bell thing." She looked at Julianne. "You do that yet?"

"No," Julianne rubbed at her forehead. "There's so many different kinds of bells, I don't know where to start."

"Lloyd would," Shea offered softly, to which Charlie frowned. Shea looked over at Lloyd's usual desk. "He'd be snapping his fingers and making some racist remark about my hair and then telling us where to go…." He bowed his head.

"Speaking of, any word?" Erica asked Julianne.

The weight around Julianne's shoulders grew instantly heavier, and she shook her head. "No. Ray was calling me every hour or so, but…he stopped around 10:30. I think he fell asleep. But, that's got to be good, right? I don't think he would have fallen asleep if he thought it wasn't going well." _Though there was the aftereffects of his own blood loss. He might not have had much choice. _Julianne bit her lip, trying not to think about someone like Ray faltering at anything.

"What about the hospital? They call?" Erica asked.

"No."

Shea huffed. "They won't," he muttered.

Julianne frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Means Lloyd's a con," Shea snarled, "surrounded by a nest of vipers. You really expect them to go above and beyond for him?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, crossing his arms. "I do. The people at that hospital are not going to discriminate just because of who he is. He'll get the best care."

"I wasn't talking about the docs," Shea said, curling his upper lip as he turned a bloodshot glare on Charlie. "I was talking about the cops between us and the doctors. They'll be there, telling the nurses they're in charge, and keeping anyone from calling us." He scowled. "Damn it, we should _be_ there."

"What are you talking about? Why would the local cops get involved?"

"Oh, come on, Charlie, you can't be that _stupid_," Shea snapped. "We left him up there surrounded by a bunch of cops who are probably terrified that we're going to take down one of their own because of what happened to Lloyd. You think they're just letting that go?" He gestured out the windows. "Did you not see how they looked at us while we were there? You'd think we were the ones setting people on fire."

Charlie's eyebrows lifted. "You're serious?"

"Yeah," Erica said, her arms crossed as well, fingers gripping tightly into her arms. "He is." She shook her head. "You didn't see it because you were in the interrogation room, but for all they said they wanted out help, we were definitely not welcome."

Charlie's frown deepened in thought, but after a moment he shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" Shea snapped, standing up again. "Are you high?"

"It doesn't matter to this case," Charlie clarified.

"It may not matter to this case, DuChamp, but hell yes it matters! What happened to Lloyd matters! How can you—?"

"Because, right now, we need to stay focused! That's always your problem, Daniels, you can never just do your job!"

"Last time I checked, our job wasn't getting shot by cops, Charlie!"

"No, your job is to finish this case! And if you can't do it—"

"What? You gonna shoot me, like they did Lloyd?"

"Oh, don't go there, Daniels!"

Shea snarled, all teeth, raising his hands up. "Oh, I'm going to go there. You just try to—"

"Shea!" Erica was between the two men now, her arms outstretched. "Stop it! Charlie's right."

Shea's eyebrows shot up. "What? Fuck you, Erica! You're as pissed off as I am! I saw you in that place; you looked ready to blow!"

"And then we left," Erica said, her tone even. "Look, I get it. But right now, I'm just really tired, okay? And Charlie has a point. We've got a job to finish."

Shea growled, but, after glaring one more time at Charlie, he slumped back down into his seat, his arms tightly crossed.

"Alright," Charlie said. "Good, so—"

"Shea has a point too, Charlie," Erica said then. "You can't just dismiss this as nothing."

Charlie exhaled heavily. "Meaning?"

Erica hesitated briefly, as if gathering her thoughts, before sighing. "Okay. Look, we all get that what we're doing is dangerous, that the cons we're chasing could kill us if we make a wrong move. But we shouldn't also be afraid of the people who are supposed to be on our side, you know? Lloyd was shot by a _cop_, Charlie, trying to save you and me. How are we supposed to feel about that?"

Charlie's frown hadn't lessened, but, after a moment, he gave a small nod. "Alright, fine. I see you're point. I saw it before. But there's not much I can do about it right now. We have two people to find and not a lot of time to do it. So, how about we concentrate on doing our jobs and, when it's over, we can talk a little more about this." He looked at the two cons. "Alright?"

Erica stared at him for a long moment, before shrugging and looking away. Shea never looked up from his shoes.

"Alright?" Charlie repeated, a little more forcefully this time.

"Yeah," Erica said, not turning around. Shea just shrugged.

Charlie sighed, and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Look, I know we're all worried about Lloyd, but at least you know that Ray's there. He'll watch over him. In the meantime, we—"

"Yeah, right, Ray's there," Shea said suddenly, his anger so palpable that Julianne flinched. "Damn it, it should be one of us, Charlie." Bloodshot eyes glared at Charlie. "Not Ray."

Charlie sighed heavily. "I'm assuming your saying that because Ray's hurt. But I assure you, he'll do his job."

Shea stared at him for a long moment, as if he was going to say something else, but then obviously changed his mind, bowing his head into his hands to rub his eyes.

Charlie sighed again. "So…how about the four of us get some sleep. Not much we can do until we hear from the cops checking the locations on Lloyd's list. You guys want to go bring the cots in here?"

Julianne grimaced slightly, watching as Erica slumped out the room, a still clearly angry Shea stomping after her. Charlie just sat down heavily onto the couch, shaking his head. Drawing the papers to her chest, she backed up to her desk and watched as the cots were brought in and the other three settled down to get some rest. Her gaze lingered the longest on Shea. You didn't need to be Lloyd to see how angry he was—it was in every shift of his shoulders or tilt of his head. Erica was angry too, but less so—she exhibited worry more strongly than anger. But Shea…

Shea looked like he was getting angrier by the minute. She hadn't seen him this angry since that day he'd come back from Attica. If anything, he was even angrier now.

She hoped Charlie knew what he was doing.

As if hearing her thoughts, Charlie glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "You going to get some sleep?"

"In a minute," she said. "You go ahead. I'll set the alarm and get the lights."

He nodded, and curled up on the couch with a blanket Erica had fetched for him. Within moments, all three were dead to the world.

She actually felt a pang of jealousy at that. She knew wasn't going to sleep this night. When her father had been hospitalized, she didn't sleep for months, not before his death…and not for a long time after either. She could feel it again, that gnawing wakefulness. She was going to be awake until she knew.

So Julianne just went back to work.

...

* * *

...

Dr. Nguyen walked tiredly towards surgery, rubbing her hand across her stiff neck. The floor was generally quiet outside of the usual beeps and murmurs, but then, it almost always was.

As she turned the corner to the wing where she knew Dr. Quereshi was working on the prisoner, she paused, frowning deeply at the sight before her.

Four local cops were hanging out in the small waiting area near the room, all looking both tense and bored. One of them, a particularly young looking man—couldn't have been more than 25—had obviously been crying.

Well, now she knew who the shooter had been.

Lifting her head, she strode forward purposefully. "Officers? May I ask what you are doing here?"

As one, they looked up, and the young man's face paled.

"Ma'am," an older one said, stepping forward, "we're here to inquire after the convict that was shot. Also, as we explained to the duty nurse, we may need to question him when he recovers, to better ascertain—"

"Not anymore you're not," Nguyen snapped, her gaze narrowing. "I will make certain that you are called once anything is known about the man being operated on, should he recover, but there is nothing for you here right now. As for submitting the patient to questioning, I understand there is already a man downstairs who has that duty—a marshal. Now, please, I would like you to leave."

"Ma'am," said the same officer as before, "with all due respect—"

"With all due respect, leave now, or I will call your captain and have him order you to leave. I am sure there are better things you could be doing right now."

The officer's jaw shifted as he obviously clenched his teeth, but, with a glance to his fellow officers, he gave a concessionary nod. "But you haven't heard the last of this," he warned.

She smiled. "I'm sure I haven't." She took a step back and swept her arm out to point to the stairs. With obvious reluctance, the group left. Only once they were on the elevator with the doors closed did she relax.

Sighing, she nodded at the wide eyed duty nurse, and walked away, pushing through the doors into the surgical wing. Not far down the hallway, she stopped to look through the window into the main operating room.

For a few long minutes, she just watched Dr. Quereshi work, trying to estimate his progress—not that she could really tell from this distance. Only once did she look at the face of the patient. He looked about as threatening as a petunia, and about as hardy—prison life had to be harsh on someone like him.

Quereshi glanced up finally, and she caught his eye. He looked as tired as Nguyen felt, and his brow was furrowed –though, whether from concentration or concern, she couldn't tell. He gave her a nod in hello, and she nodded back. She then looked at the patient and back up at him, silently asking for an update. After all, she'd promised the marshal that she would find out.

Quereshi answered by simply getting back to work. Nguyen frowned slightly, knowing that meant he wasn't ready to give a definite prognosis yet. She didn't want to talk to that marshal again without more information, good or not. Part of her didn't want to talk to him at all, not without knowing why he was so desperate to know.

After a moment, she turned and headed back to the duty nurse's desk. She'd leave a message for Quereshi to talk to the marshal in the morning, to tell him whether his prisoner survived.

Or not.

* * *

TBC…

_I admit, I started calling Lloyd, "Petunia," in my head for a while after writing this chapter.  
_


	4. Chapter 4

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR: SHAKING  
**

Ray couldn't do this. He had been sitting here, in a wheelchair, staring at Lloyd for five minutes, and if he had to stay here a moment longer, he'd go insane.

At first, he'd been happy about coming down here. At about 7:00 in the morning, the surgeon who'd treated Lloyd had woken him and told he could finally see Lloyd, to see for himself that he was still alive, and he'd actually smiled at the thought. The whole way to Lloyd's room—which was set downstairs in a basement corridor for prisoner isolation—the doctor had told him how well the surgery had gone, how lucky Lloyd was that the bullet hadn't done more damage, how Lloyd was already breathing on his own and that they expected him to make a full recovery. Ray had simply nodded, glad of it all, thinking to himself that everything was going to be alright now.

But the actual sight of him….All those tubes and machines and buttons and lights….

He knew, in his rational mind, that Lloyd was alive inside all that equipment, but it still looked unreal. It looked painful. It looked _wrong._

He didn't want to be here. He wouldn't have thought of himself a coward, but sitting here, looking at someone who just yesterday had been jumping around the office, talking too much and smiling that weird creepy smile of his, making Ray proud yet again that he'd picked Lloyd for this team, and now seeing him like this. Lloyd looked all but dead.

And it was Ray's fault.

Riley was right. Ray had told the cops to watch the cons, to make sure they didn't step out of line. If he'd been less contemptuous in front of the local LEOs, been more careful in how he'd portrayed them to that captain and his men, then maybe….maybe….

_Stop it_. This wasn't his fault, damn it! He didn't pull the trigger. And he'd only done what was right when he'd told the cops to watch the cons. They needed watching. And it's not like Lloyd hadn't run before—it's how Ray had met him. He couldn't have known this would happen.

_Right_?

"Not what you thought it would be, is it?" a voice asked from the doorway. Ray looked up, and frowned to see the ER doctor who'd treated his leg. Dr. Nguyen looked, if possible, even more haggard than she had last night. She was in regular clothes, loose fitting jeans and a sweatshirt, and her short black hair was sticking out in weird directions. She was wiping her glasses on the shirt, so she squinted at him. Ray frowned slightly—she'd never come back last night, at least not while he was awake. He didn't like that she'd lied to him.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

She bit her lips briefly, then shrugged as she put her glasses back on. "Look, I'm…I'm sorry. I came to apologize."

"Apologize."

She nodded. "I didn't try to get you in to see your prisoner. But turns out it wasn't up to me anyway—you'd already been given clearance and orders came down from above to wheel you up here. So…" She gave another shrug. "Here you are."

He looked back at Lloyd. "Yeah." _Here I am._

"You know," she said, "for someone who says he didn't fire the gun, you're looking pretty guilty."

_Oh for crying out loud! _"What's your problem?" he snapped.

She gave a tired shrug, dark eyes watching him intently. "I only want to make sure that you're not going to hurt him."

"I'm not...Wait, what?" His anger faded, leaving behind only confusion. "You think I'm going to hurt him?"

"It's happened. I know he was shot by a cop, though I don't know why. Maybe he hurt your partner, or someone else you care about, or maybe he's going to tell people something you don't want them to hear. And, as I said before, you've got that look."

He stared at her a moment longer, before setting his jaw stubbornly. "And as I said before, doc, _it ain't like that_. You have no idea what you're talking about."

She watched him a moment longer, and then sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "I hope that's true. If it is, I'm sorry. I just…." She glanced at Lloyd, and then again at Ray. "I'd be happier if you weren't here. Whatever he's done, he's a patient right now. He needs rest."

Ray stared at her, and then at Lloyd. "It's not your call, doc."

"No. It's yours."

Ray didn't look at her, not wanting to give her any satisfaction that she'd rattled him.

But after a long moment, when he didn't hear her speak again, he looked back at the doorway. She was gone. He sighed, and lowered his head.

Doc was right about one thing. It would be better if he wasn't here, mostly because he didn't want to be here. And even if he did, would his face really be the one that Lloyd wanted to see first when he woke up?

No, but he knew whose face Lloyd _would_ want to see. And someone did need to be here to protect…to watch Lloyd.

He lifted the jacket slung over his legs and felt inside the pocket for his phone.

…

* * *

…

Charlie frowned slightly as he hung up after talking to Ray, but he saw no good reason to deny the other man's request. Standing up, he walked out of the office, pausing to take in how tired his team was…but also how dedicated. Even Shea had his head in a file, marking things with a highlighter. Feeling a little more energized by that, Charlie knocked on an empty desk to get their attention.

"I just got off the phone with Ray."

All three looked up expectantly, and Julianne actually stood up, her anxiety clear. He smiled at her, waving her to sit down as he spoke.

"Ray let me know that they've discharged him. He said his leg aches a bit, but not enough to stop him from wanting to get back her to help us on the case."

Erica looked happy, but Shea frowned, his hands gripping into fists. "What about Lloyd?"

"He's with him now. Docs told him that Lloyd should be fine. He'll need a while to recover, but he'll be okay." He smiled slightly. "I guess it'll keep him out of a cell for a while longer."

Erica and Shea both grinned, and even Julianne cracked a smile. Charlie nodded at her.

"One more thing, Julianne," he began. "Ray wants to get out of there, and I can't really blame him. But someone has to be with Lloyd, so—"

"Me?" Julianne asked, standing up again. She looked terrified. "You want me to go? Up there? To the hospital?"

"Ray says he's worked out a deal with the staff. Since Lloyd is already isolated, there's less of a concern about the use of mobile devices. You'll be able to use your laptop and your phone, so you'll be able to do most of what you usually do for us from there."

She just blinked. If anything, the deer in headlights expression was even more obvious. Charlie tilted his head, not fully understanding her reaction. He thought she liked Lloyd. In fact, he had been growing a little concerned that she liked him a little too much—that Lloyd might be abusing her trusting nature too much, especially after Ramsey. But then he remembered that it was Lloyd, and that Julianne was probably tougher than she looked. Although right now…

"Something the matter, Julianne?"

"You want me to go to a hospital," she said again, as if she didn't understand the concept. Charlie's frown deepened.

"Yes."

"I can't." She whispered, her eyes absurdly wide, her voice breathy. "Please."

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at Erica and Shea, who were both listening in. Shea looked annoyed, but Erica looked almost sympathetic, as if she understood something Charlie didn't yet. Charlie sighed and lowered his voice.

"I don't want to make you, Julianne, but Ray has a point. He's probably more useful to me in the field, whereas you can do your job just as well up there as—"

"It's not that. It's….I don't…I don't like hospitals."

It was a very simple statement, quietly delivered in an almost childlike voice. But, for the first time, Charlie understood a little more of what was going on. This wasn't a child not wanting to visit a hospital, this was an adult woman. That statement had a lot more behind it than its simplicity implied.

Problem was, he knew Ray didn't like them either. Maybe not to the same depths as Julianne, but….

Ray had also pointed out something to Charlie that had resonated—Lloyd should have a friend there when he woke up and, to be honest, Ray wasn't Lloyd's friend. Neither was Charlie. But Julianne…Julianne was, even if Charlie didn't like that fact very much.

"I get that you don't like hospitals," Charlie said to her, keeping his voice as low as possible. "I'm guessing that you've had your fill of them over the years, for one reason or another. But I need you to overcome that feeling, Julianne. Lloyd should have someone there when he wakes up."

She grimaced slightly, as if in pain from the notion, and her hands fluttered nervously.

"Please, Julianne," Charlie pressed. "I could order Ray to stay there, but, you and I both know that, if it were up to Lloyd, Ray's face would not be the first one he saw when he wakes up after being shot."

The grimace turned into a frown. Her hands moved to under the desk, probably so he wouldn't see them shake—a little late for that. He shook his head and tried one more time.

"Please, Julianne. Don't make this an order."

She looked down at her desk, and he saw her jaw clench. She gave a sharp nod, and Charlie gave her a grateful smile. At that moment, Julianne's phone rang, sharp and tinny, so Charlie moved away, walking over to Shea's desk.

Shea was looking down at his papers, but he didn't seem to be reading anything. There was something truly hard and ugly in his expression, and his hands were still balled into fists. Charlie frowned, recalling the conversation from the night before. Whatever was eating away at Daniels, it didn't seem to have lessened in intensity—if anything, it had grown worse.

"Shea," Charlie asked, keeping his voice pitched low, "is there something more you want to say to me?"

Closing his eyes, Shea sighed. "I just—"

"Oh my God," Julianne gasped. "Are you sure? Where was it?"

Charlie spun around to look at her. "Julianne? What's the matter?"

Her eyes were wide as saucers as she met his gaze. "It's the state police. They've…they've found a bomb. They think Hughes planted it."

"What?" he asked. "Who found it? Where?"

"Perrytown Elementary School. I…hang on…." She listened to whomever was talking on her phone for a minute, then looked up again. "According to the local police, it was attached to the bell system, set to go off at 8:50 am tomorrow morning, ten minutes after the call to homeroom. If they hadn't gone in today to check the system…."

"Oh my god," Erica whispered, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Perrytown," Shea repeated, standing. "Isn't that—?"

"—the town next to Leadville, where Hughes' wife and kid live," Charlie finished. "Yeah." He looked at Julianne. "Are they sure the bomb was Hughes'?"

"It's too big of a coincidence to ignore, with the bell and what we told them to look out for. They've called in the bomb squad to take it apart, so no one has had a good look at it yet. They called us because they want our help confirming that their hunch is right, and that Hughes planted it."

"A school," Erica muttered, her eyes wild and unfocused.

"Wait," Shea said, flipping through the initial list of places Lloyd had come up with. He frowned deeply as he looked up. "Perrytown Elementary isn't on Lloyd's list."

"It's not on my list either," Julianne said, her cheeks flushing. "I never thought—"

"Neither did Lloyd, obviously," Charlie said gruffly. "How did they find the bomb?"

"The bells have been malfunctioning in the cold. The maintenance staff was planning to run a test of all the systems this morning, since it's a Sunday and no one would be around—luckily one of them saw the bomb before…." She shook her head.

"What about Hughes' son and ex-wife?"

"Not there. Still no sign."

Charlie frowned. "They're sure?"

"They checked all the rooms before evacuating. They're not there." Julianne looked down at her watch. "Bomb squad is about an hour away."

"I don't understand," Erica said then. "Hughes is an arsonist, not a bomber. And what does that school have to do with Hughes?"

"It was his son's school." She sat down heavily in her chair. "Perrytown is regionalized with Leadville. Connor Hughes is in the fourth grade class."

Shea fell back against the desk behind him. "Christ."

Erica's eyes were still wide. "But that means—"

"That this has become about more than just a kidnapping," Charlie said. "It's escalated to stopping a bombing. Or bombings." He frowned at Julianne. "Call Ray, give him a heads up." He looked at the others. "Everyone, pack your things, we leave in ten minutes. Julianne, tell Ray we'll drop you at the hospital and pick him up on the way."

Julianne visibly shuddered, but nodded, already dialing Ray's number.

…

* * *

…

Erica pressed herself up against the SUV's window, her legs up on the seat so she could wrap her arms around them. She was shivering, had been on and off since they'd turned off the highway ten minutes ago, and she wasn't sure why.

Though it might have something to do with the fact that she'd grown up in a town like this.

Perrytown was a small, rural town about ten miles west of the small city of Redkill. It boasted one of everything, most of which were contained inside a building that looked like a single story, 1970's strip mall. The library, post-office, clerk's office and police station were all right next to each other in the building, bookended on one side by a small white church and on the other by an old silver diner. The elementary school was directly across the street from the diner.

The small parking lot was packed—four bright red fire engines gathered tightly around the building, along with several police cruisers, two ambulances and three state trooper vehicles, all quietly standing in anticipation. Two black SUVs with NY State Police license plates were also parked to one side, and Charlie pulled up their truck alongside. Bomb squad, Erica figured, and maybe BCI or counter-terrorism.

Ray was out the door as soon as they stopped, before Charlie even had the engine off. Just as well, no one had said anything since they'd picked him up twenty minutes ago, except in greeting and to ask about Lloyd. Shea hadn't said anything to Ray at all—Erica didn't think he'd even looked at him. She wasn't sure what that was about.

She opened the back door and stepped down, crossing her arms as the cold air quickly seeped through her jacket. She felt Shea step down to stand next to her, but neither of them made a further move to go anywhere near the other cops or the building. Charlie grunted something about them staying with the SUV before he jogged after Ray. Sort of an unnecessary order.

"That's a lot of cops," Shea muttered. Erica didn't respond, she didn't really need to. A bomb in a school—if they'd thought this case was busy with law enforcement agencies before, it was going to go crazy with them now. Charlie was going to have his hands full trying to keep a handle on the case, or maintain any kind of lead. Especially since they hadn't pegged this location as a target. Which was something that still really bothered her….

"Why didn't Lloyd predict this location?" she asked.

Shea shook his head, looking away.

Crossing her arms more tightly as a sharp, frigid burst of wind cut through her, Erica took a better look around the town. Driving in, the homes had mostly been bungalows and trailer homes, but there were a few larger houses. Opposite the school on the far side, she could see a few nice colonials and a really pretty brick tall Georgian house with slate tiles…with a large foreclosure sign in front of it. Some of the other houses also had "For Sale" signs on them, and at least two more foreclosure signs. It looked like half the town was for sale or on the verge of it.

_Christ, this town is poor. _It was obviously barely struggling to survive, and now this? These people already had so much to worry about….How could Hughes, how could anyone, do something like this to a town as obviously helpless as this one?

And to _kids_? Her daughter went to a school that looked almost exactly like this one…

Her already tired eyes prickled with tears, and she quickly rubbed at them to get rid of the moisture.

"Diner look open?" Shea asked then, peering across the street. His tone was coarse, as if he didn't care at all about this place or what was going on here. Anger surged inside her.

"Why?" she demanded. "Don't feel like doing your job this morning? You want to go hide in the diner with the locals and pretend someone didn't almost blow up a school?"

Shea's eyebrows lifted. "Whoa," he said, raising his gloved hands. "What crawled up your ass?"

She snarled, and looked away. "Nothing."

"I was just thinking that a cup of coffee would be nice. We didn't get much sleep, remember?"

She closed her eyes. Of course. The anger subsided, replaced by embarrassment—she could feel her face flush.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Coffee would be good."

"I'll go see if Charlie can lend us a couple of bucks."

Erica nodded, climbed back into the warm SUV and tried to stop shaking.

…

* * *

…

Julianne stood in the doorway to Lloyd's room, looking at the stranger lying on the bed. Oh sure, objectively, she knew it was Lloyd; he was buried somewhere inside that deathly still body, tubes and wires surrounding him on all sides. But that didn't mean she wanted to see it. See him. Like this.

The heart monitor beeped, cold and empty. The machines hummed and wheezed. It wasn't the first time she'd seen a dead man kept alive.

_He's not dying._ _This isn't like dad. _Rationality tried to be heard, but it didn't resonate. It rarely did.

The hospital stank, like bleach and antiseptic. Her heels had echoed down the hall to reach his room, loud as gunshots in her ears. Her breathing had been abnormally loud, her hands trembling as the corridor's silence threatened to overwhelm. But none of it was as horrible as standing here, looking at his cold, still frame, knowing there was nothing, _nothing_, she could do to make this better.

_He's not dead. He's not dying. Everything is going to be okay. You can do this._

Blowing out a slow breath, she stepped deeper into the room and closed the door—but the snap of the lock in place instantly brought the fear into sharp focus. She started to shake, her partial nosocomephobia trying to overwhelm her, and she pressed up against the door, needing its solidity to ground her.

_Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop…._

She curled her hands into fists and, as she'd been taught, listened to her breathing. She started to count the inhales, slowing them down, until, eventually, the shaking subsided and her heart stopped trying to beat itself out of her chest.

_Okay. You're okay. _

Deliberately not looking at Lloyd, she moved away from the door and to the plastic chair against the wall opposite the bed. Dropping her things onto it, she looked at what she could use for a desk…The bedside tray table would do. Pulling it over, she opened her bags and started setting up her laptop and papers. She soon got lost in the comforting rhythms of organizing her new workspace.

And then the phone rang, and she nearly broke into a million little pieces of terror.

Scrambling, she pulled it out of her purse with a shaking hand and pressed it to her ear. It was Charlie—he wanted to make sure she would be able to work in the room, that she had everything she needed. She told him that she was fine, everything was alright, wireless was working fine and that she'd have a new list of locations associated with either Meredith or Connor Hughes in twenty minutes. After he hung up, she sighed heavily, and started running searches on the laptop. She felt better now that she was focused on something.

Lloyd's breathing hitched, and Julianne tensed, looking at him askance. But he didn't move, the monitor didn't change, and he didn't look like he'd even moved. She breathed out slowly.

She felt the fear like a lead-white in her belly, reminding her of the inevitability of mortality and her impotency when faced with it. Swallowing hard, she resolved to focus on her work, not on Lloyd. She could do this. She just…she just had to pretend he wasn't there.

…

* * *

…

Shea rapping on the window caused Erica to jump. She frowned at him, until he held up two paper cups of coffee, and then she couldn't help smiling. Opening the SUV's door, she climbed down and took one of the cups. One sip told her he'd gotten it exactly the way she liked it.

"I'm good, right?" he said, smirking slightly. "That's how you like it?"

"Don't get smug," she warned, cupping her hands around the hot drink for warmth. "I could do—"

The explosion was loud, almost as loud as last night, shoving them backwards and turning the ground into jelly. In an eyeblink, a quarter of the school building simply collapsed in on itself, bricks and mortar puffing up into the sky, blocking out the sun. Erica fell back against the SUV, gasping for air, every muscle shaking as if to mimic the earth below her. Twice! Two explosions in less than twenty four hours! What the _hell_!

Charlie was running with the rest of the cops to help, while Ray gamely hobbled along behind, but everyone not wearing a turn-out coat was quickly rebuffed by the firefighters. A man in a white helmet started bellowing orders out of a bullhorn, trying to be heard over the hoses as the fire-trucks came to life.

Flames appeared in the rubble, and began to grow, seemingly ignoring the water now pouring down on top of them.

Charlie turned and looked at Shea and Erica, and then said something to Ray before jogging back to join them.

"You guys okay?" he asked, a little breathless.

"I don't like this case, Charlie," Shea said, his voice tight. Erica hadn't noticed before, but Shea's eyes had gone glassy. "Bombs, fires, kidnappings, Lloyd shot….this is so not what we signed up for."

Charlie grimaced, but nodded. "I know."

"What happened?" Erica asked. "I thought the bomb wasn't supposed to go off until—"

"Something must have happened while they were trying to disarm it."

Erica's eyes widened. "This happened because they were disarming…?"

Charlie gave a nod. "The men inside are probably dead."

Shea turned away, keeping his face from the others. Erica just looked from Charlie, to Ray, to the other cops standing around. There was one woman in a suit who looked to be going nuts, trying to get past the fireman to the building, shouting and reaching, yelling something about getting to her men….

Erica closed her eyes and lowered her head.

"This is not happening again," Charlie said, his tone dark. "You hear me? No one else is getting hurt—not us, not them, no-one else. This stops here."

Erica didn't look up, or even open her eyes. She just nodded.

"What now?" Shea asked.

"I'm going to see if we can't get some space from the locals here to work in. We're not going back to Brooklyn—we're staying up here until we figure this out. Get all the papers, laptops, everything. Shea, call Julianne. I want Lloyd on the phone as soon as he's awake."

Erica's eyes popped open, and she stared wide-eyed at Charlie. "As soon as he's awake?" she repeated. "But—"

Charlie snarled. "He screwed up, not having this place on his list. I want to know why."

"Hey," Shea said, "'it's not Lloyd's—"

"I'm not arguing about this!" Charlie snapped. "Call her and tell her."

"No!" Shea said.

Erica swallowed, not sure what was happening. She reached for her phone. "I'll do it," she said quietly.

"No!" Shea snarled, tugging her arm. "Not if he's going to yell at him!"

She frowned. "But he'll want to help, Shea. You know he—"

She trailed off when she realized he was no longer listening. Shea had backed up to the door, his head down, his hands in fists by his side.

"Shea—" she tried, but he just shook his head and stepped closer to Charlie, his hands still fisted.

"Take it back. Take back what you said about Lloyd."

Charlie frowned slightly.

"Take it back!" Shea snapped. "This wasn't his fault! Take it back!"

Charlie's face reddened slightly. Then, like a cut marionette, he just slumped against the SUV, his head down.

"Charlie?" Erica asked.

"Damn it," Charlie muttered, though not to Erica, not to anyone. "This is messed up."

Shea frowned, relaxing his stance slightly. Erica bit her lip.

"Charlie?" she tried again when Charlie didn't look up.

He sighed, and looked directly at Shea. "You're right. Of course, you're right. It's not Lloyd's fault. I'm just…I'm angry. More people are dead because we can't figure out this guy, and…and kids could've….I just…." He glanced at Shea. "I didn't mean it the way it came out."

Shea's expression softened and his hands loosened. With a nod, he stepped back and looked away.

Erica blew the air out of her cheeks, but didn't put her phone away. "Shall I still call Julianne?" she asked.

"Yeah," Charlie said, not taking his eyes of Shea. "But only if he's well enough, and if he wants to help."

Shea's lips flashed a tiny smile. Charlie looked back at the school.

The flames were already being contained, but black smoke was billowing out of the fire, blackening the clear blue sky.

"Way I see it," Charlie said then, his voice low, "if this bomb was set to go off at about 9:00 am tomorrow morning, then that probably means we have less than twenty four hours to find any other bombs he might've planted, along with his ex-wife and kid." He looked at them both. "You two up for this?"

"Do we have a choice?" Shea asked.

Charlie smiled thinly, and looked to Erica. She just shrugged.

Was she up for something like this? No. But she would be damned if she was going to let another bomb go off that could hurt a kid.

* * *

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: WAKING UP **

Julianne yawned despite herself, trying to put together a time-line of Hughes' movements while compiling information on the ex-wife, Meredith, and ten year old Connor, no matter how seemingly inconsequential—by now, she had learned that anything could be important.

She yawned again. Her eyes burned—she hadn't slept more than two hours in the last forty-eight, and it was taking its toll.

"Jul…?"

It was barely stronger than a whisper, croaked from a too dry throat. Yet it was as loud as a shout in her ears. She turned to face the bed, her eyes wide.

Lloyd was squinting at her, his blue, red-rimmed eyes almost lost inside his pale face.

"Oh my god," she whispered. Shoving the laptop to one side, she ran to the door, to find a doctor. She ground her teeth slightly when she saw no one in the hallway, not even a nurse at the duty station. She jogged back to Lloyd's bed and flailed around for the call button. Finding it, she hit it a few times and then backed up almost to the wall, realizing she'd been leaning very close to his head in order to push it.

To her embarrassment, he seemed to be following her every movement, even trying to sit up when she ended up against the wall again, only to grimace and fall back. He wheezed and briefly looked up at the ceiling before focusing on her again.

She swallowed and shifted closer to the bed, her hands wringing the bottom of her cardigan. He blinked, and frowned slightly.

"Julianne?" He wheezed again. "That is…that is you, right? I'm not…" He gave an odd smile. "Dreaming?"

"Yeah," she said, and, without really thinking about it, she returned his smile. "I mean, no; you're not dreaming. It's me."

Lloyd blinked at her a few times, before looking around the room. "So, not dead then."

For some reason, that made her smile even more. "No. You're fine. You're going to be okay."

"Um…." He closed his eyes for a long moment, and then opened them again wider this time. "The others, the house, I was trying to warn…Are they…?"

She nodded. "Everyone's fine. Thanks to you. They're safe and sound."

He seemed to search her face a moment, before smiling slightly…and then the grimace returned, his eyes shutting tightly. "Ow…but my back…on _fire_."

Julianne bit her lip briefly. "Um, yeah…." She couldn't think of a good way to say it. "You were shot."

When he looked at her again, she could see the insult in his gaze. "I _know_," he whispered, somehow imbuing the rasp with sarcasm. "I remember that part. How bad? And is there a shortage on painkillers or something? Because, _ow_!" His left hand fluttered slightly as he spoke, his movements weak, and he looked down at his feet. She followed his gaze, watching as he deliberately moved both of his feet. His sigh of relief was quickly replaced by another groan. "Seriously," he said, "more painkillers would be really good." His whisper had strengthened into more of a croak as he tipped his head back on the pillow. "It hurts, it really, really _hurts_."

"The doctor is coming," she promised. "But, so you know, everything I've been told says you'll make a full recovery." Her smile brightened. "That's good, right?"

He frowned at her. "Yeah," he croaked, "though it'd be nice to how much pain there will be before then. Because I really don't like pain, and I'm in a lot of it."

"Oh. That…that makes sense." She looked at the door again and tugged at her scarf. "Damn it, where is that doctor?"

He sighed, and she glanced at him. He was looking up at the ceiling now, his lips firmly pressed together.

She frowned. She tugged harder at her scarf and took a step towards the door—maybe she should go get them?

"Julianne."

She bit her lip and looked down at him again. He blinked, and then lifted his hand slightly…and pointed it at her laptop in the corner.

"Working?"

"The laptop?" she asked. "Yes. It works fine."

He frowned again, and this time she knew he was thinking she was an idiot. She hated that look.

"No," he whispered, his eyes closing. "Are you…working the case? Or something else?"

She worried her lip some more, but gave a nod as she walked over to it. "Yeah. We've not found Hughes' ex-wife and son yet."

"Why…why not? I would have…Hughes didn't tell?"

"No. He wouldn't talk, and now there's this new development. Actually, Charlie wanted to ask you…oh." She looked back at Lloyd, only to find he had closed his eyes fully, his head turned to the side away from her. She frowned. "Lloyd?"

"Excuse me," a clear voice said, causing Julianne to nearly knock the laptop off the tray table in surprise. "Did you hit the call button?"

Julianne pressed a hand to her chest, breathing hard when she looked at the door. A young man in blue scrubs was arching an eyebrow at her.

"Um…" She said, swallowing down her nerves. "Yes, Yes, I did. We need the doctor. Lloyd's awake." As she spoke, she looked at the bed…but Lloyd's eyes were still closed. Shoot.

The nurse frowned slightly. "He doesn't look awake."

Julianne frowned—did he think she was lying? "Well, he was," she retorted, fisting her hands around her scarf. "And what took you so long? I hit that call button at least three minutes ago. You should have been here a lot quicker."

The nurse twisted his lips slightly. "Oh, sorry. You're sort of away from everything down here in the basement, and we're sort of short on staff right now. I can—"

"I want you to get his doctor. Now. Lloyd wants to know what's happened to him and he's in pain."

"You don't think the patient should just rest some more, and maybe when he wakes up again—"

"No. I want him here now. Right now." At some point, her hands had dropped from the scarf, and were balled into fists by her side. She stepped closer to the kid, lowering her voice. "And the next time I hit that call button, you be here in seconds, do you understand? This time it wasn't an emergency, but next time it might be, and you took too damned long. This man deserves to be treated with the same speed and respect as everyone else in this hospital. I don't care how out of the way this basement hallway is, or how short on staff you are, if I hit that call button, you had better come running."

The nurse's eyebrows lifted. "Look, I promise you, Miss, we don't discriminate here. We're just a little short of resources—"

"Then you pull someone in who's got a day off, and you man that duty station out there. And don't call me 'Miss.' I'm Special Deputy Simms, or just Deputy. Now, are you going to get me his doctor and man that station, or do I need to call someone a little higher up in the chain?"

His expression darkened. "That's not necessary."

"What shouldn't be necessary is the fact that I even have to threaten it."

An eyebrow flexed, followed by a shrug. "I'll let the administrator know what you want."

Julianne frowned, and moved to within a foot of where he was standing. "You do that."

His brow furrowed in annoyance, but he gave another shrug and headed off, padding quietly down the hallway with an unhurried pace. Julianne wished she had something to throw at him. Backing into the room, she slammed the door and blew the air out of her cheeks.

And then she heard Lloyd trying to laugh. When she looked at him, his face was a mixture of grimace and smile as he laughed, it obviously hurting like hell. Despite how angry she'd been a minute ago, she found herself smiling ruefully. Laughing looked damned painful, yet he also looked about ten times happier than he had before the nurse had shown up.

"You laughing at me?" she asked, moving closer to the bed.

He gave a head shake, but his eyes were bright and alive as he looked up at her. "No."

"Yes," she challenged, "you are."

"No, no," he tried, waving a hand vaguely. "Just…look at you standing up for me, Special Deputy Simms. You're my hero." He said it nasally, with just the right of smarm, and started to laugh harder at his own joke…only to emit increasingly longer groans of pain between the almost childlike giggles.

Julianne sighed, but her smile only got bigger as she reached his side. "You probably shouldn't laugh."

He grunted, chuckled, then groaned. "I'm trying to stop," he promised between tiny hysterical fits. "Honest." He tipped up his hand, two fingers pressed together. "Scout's honor." That caused more agonized laughter, now interspersed with coughing.

She took his hand in hers to squeeze it, grinning now. "I wouldn't believe that even if you _had_ been a scout, which you weren't. I still haven't forgiven you for 'Bambi,' you know."

"Hey, I was a cub scout."

"For two days."

"They wanted me to sew. Sewing's for girls."

She laughed, and so did he, his hand pressing deeper into hers.

Then, slowly, he stopped laughing, his breathing evening out as he looked up at her. The look on his face was something new—almost….

Julianne suddenly realized what she was doing, and quickly released her hold on his hand. "Oh God," she said, backpedaling, nearly colliding with the wall, rubbing her hand on her stomach. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…."

His expression instantly deflated, his fingers curling up as if to retain the feel of her hand on his. "No, wait…."

She shook her head, backing all the way to the far corner, where her laptop was. Turning, she pretended to fiddle with it.

"Julianne, please…don't…."

She tried to tune him out, sitting back down in the plastic chair. "I need to finish these searches."

"Please…" He coughed, and groaned slightly. "That was…. No one has ever…."

She attacked the search engines on her laptop with renewed vigor.

"Julianne?"

She turned her head away further.

"Okay," he said softly. "I get it."

She prioritized the list of places, putting them in categories.

"Can I at least help?" he asked then, his voice fading to a whisper.

She closed her eyes and lowered her head. Can he help? Nearly twenty four hours ago, he'd almost died, and he still wanted to help. And she'd just let go his hand like it was scalding her. Her eyes started to burn, and when she opened them again, she had to blink to clear them of water.

"Yeah," she replied. Charlie had ordered her to get Lloyd's help if she could. So, with more confidence, "Yes."

A knock at the door cut her off, and she looked up. The door opened and the surgeon who'd worked on Lloyd peeked his head in. Julianne recognized him from seeing his photo upstairs before coming down.

"Hi," he said. "I hear our GSW is awake?"

"He is," Lloyd answered, coughing slightly. "And he could use some better painkillers. I could also use some ice chips or something. My mouth tastes like the rug of an undergrad's dorm room."

The surgeon smiled, looking genuinely pleased. "Well, you're certainly awake." He opened the door fully and walked inside, followed by a couple of nurses, including the one Julianne had chewed out. "I'm Dr. Quereshi—I'm the one who took the bullet out of you last night. You say you're in pain?"

"Yes. And I'm too hot. Feels like I'm in a sauna."

"Well," Quereshi said, pursing his lips as he looked at the monitors next to the bed, "your temperature is slightly elevated."

"Shocker," Lloyd sneered. "I feel like you could cook on me. When was the last time you changed my dressing?"

What followed was an almost amusing back and forth, with Lloyd getting cockier and meaner with each breath. Briefly, Julianne considered moving to stand at Lloyd's side since that was probably what was expected of her, but he was clearly doing just fine on his own. His voice grew more confident as the two men talked, even though he seemed to cough more as the conversation progressed.

After a while, she sat back down and stayed in her corner, watching and listening.

Despite his best efforts, Lloyd did fall back asleep fairly quickly, almost mid-sentence, and Dr. Quereshi issued a few orders to the staff with him. When he was finished, and they were dismissed, he approached Julianne, putting out a hand.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet you when you first arrived. You're Deputy Simms, yes? I take it you're here to guard the prisoner?"

"In a matter of speaking," she said, standing up and taking his hand for as short a time as she possible could. "How does he seem?"

Quereshi smiled. "Arrogant and annoying, to be honest, but, health-wise, he seems on the mend. He's running a moderate fever, but we should be able to knock that down with medication. We'll probably be able to transfer him to his prison infirmary in a couple more days. They can monitor his condition there. He was very lucky."

Julianne couldn't hold back the smile, and Quereshi tilted his head.

"Interesting," he said, his brow furrowed with evident curiosity. "The other marshal also seemed genuinely happy to know he was going to be okay. After talking to Mr. Lowery, I'm not sure I would." He tilted his head. "I take he's not a normal prisoner?"

"No," Julianne said, glancing at Lloyd. "He's not." She must have smiled again, because Quereshi gave a hum and then backed up.

"Well, I'll be around if you need me again. By the way, I can tell you haven't had much sleep. He likely won't wake again for hours, so you might consider getting forty winks yourself."

Julianne nodded, still watching Lloyd sleep. He looked better, now—just sleeping as opposed to….the way she'd looked at him before he'd woken. When she turned her head away again, the doctor was gone, and the door closed. She sighed, and, after a moment, she sat back down again.

The laptop was dark from being too long idle, and she hit the mouse. A quick check showed that no new emails or texts had come in, and her eyes began to burn again. She finished the searches and sent them off to Charlie. She then pushed the laptop back and put her head down on the table. She'd hear the computer ding if something new came in, or if her phone rang. A couple of minutes rest couldn't hurt. She probably couldn't sleep anyway.

She just wanted to close her eyes for a minute….

…

* * *

…

"So, how does Perrytown fit?" Charlie said, looking down at the papers on the little fold-up table. It was covered in possibilities and options, lists on top of lists of locations across four counties and two states. And they were struggling to even start narrowing it down.

"He wanted to destroy it," Erica said. "It should go on Lloyd's initial list of locations—places where Hughes felt like a victim."

"Why wasn't it on there already?"

"Easy," Shea said. "It's new. Lloyd's profile was based on a six year old profile. Connor wasn't even in school when Hughes was put away."

"But why would he want to destroy it?"

"What if Hughes' ex wouldn't let him talk to his son, or see him, so Hughes tried to go around her and called the school?" suggested Erica. "But they rebuffed him—refused him?"

"That could definitely piss someone off," Shea said.

"Yeah, but…." Charlie rubbed at his scalp. "The first two places Hughes burned down after escaping _were_ on Lloyd's list. And the place we caught him at was on there. Is this place an aberration, or does it have to do with the type of anger, or—?"

"This is pointless," Ray snapped suddenly, tossing his files across the small room, sending papers flying everywhere. "How are we supposed to guess what places might've pissed Hughes off since he's been in prison? There could be dozens we'd never think about!"

Charlie sighed. He'd been afraid of this. "Ray, I know this is hard, but—"

"But, what? Think about it, Charlie. If you start trying to come up with places where he felt like a victim in the last six years, why didn't he bomb the prison? Or the courthouse? Or the place where he was arrested? Hell, where does his mother-in-law live? Lord knows, I've had to fight the urge to bomb mine!"

"Maybe he has."

"Exactly my point! We could go on forever coming up with places like that. And as for trying to come up with places where he feels in control, or places his wife and kid liked…." He gestured to Julianne's lists. "That's even more impossible. Let's face it—we're screwed here."

Erica sighed, putting her own file down. "So what do you suggest?"

"Wake Lowery up and make him do this?" Shea suggested, snarling slightly, his eyes on Ray. "Oh, right, we can't, because someone shot him."

"Not helpful, Shea," Charlie said. He shook his head. "And, Ray, I'm not disagreeing, but we don't have a lot of choice here, we…."

"Sure we do," Ray said, crossing his arms. "We caught the guy, Charlie. We did our job. Let's let the FBI finish this one, and go home."

Charlie frowned, his eyes narrowing. "They asked for our help, Ray. And we're going to give it." He turned his gaze to Shea and Erica, daring them to disagree, but neither seemed inclined to argue. He shook his head. "I know this is hard, what with what happened to Lloyd, but I promised the Director we were up to the task. And we are. We just need to be more creative." He stood and stretched slightly, and then tapped the papers he'd been reading. "We need to think more deeply. We need to—"

"Think more like Hughes," Erica finished. And then she shuddered slightly. "Which is why I usually like to leave that sort of thing up to Lloyd. He can handle dark and twisted way better than the rest of us."

"No doubt," Charlie agreed, "but he's not here, so…." He looked at each of them in turn. "Distasteful as it is, dark and twisted is the way we have to think right now."

Erica sighed, and returned to taking notes. Shea barely moved, slumped in his chair, blinking at the file in front of him. Ray settled back into his rickety chair, the scowl on his face deep and his arms crossed.

Rain started to speckle the small window to the rear of the room, providing a soft white noise to the quiet room. As Charlie watched, the heavy drops increased in force, faster and faster, until water was sluicing down the window.

A heavy rumble echoed overhead. Great, a thunderstorm in winter. Can't even predict the weather these days.

Erica sighed, tossing a file down and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. He knew she was tired. They all were, running on no sleep, working on a fruitless endeavor. Even Ray, leaning against his crutch, sitting on his too small metal chair, looked peculiarly old and lost.

_I'm a fucking idiot_. Impulsively, Charlie picked up the papers in front of him and tossed them after Ray's, causing everyone to jump.

"You're right," he said. "We're not wasting our time on this anymore."

Shea gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Charlie said, "that I forgot we're not a one man band. We're trying to be Lloyd, but Lloyd doesn't work in a vacuum. He makes his educated guesses based off of information _we_ supply him. He didn't just find Hughes based on what he saw in one file; he found him based on information we tracked down from the first two arsons Hughes committed after he escaped."

"Now this is what I'm talking about," Ray said, smiling and sitting up more.

"Way I see it," Charlie continued, "we have two new crime scenes to look through – the school across the street and the house from last night— and we haven't even begun doing the sort of in-depth tracking of Hughes' movements that we normally do when we have a fugitive on the loose." He looked at each of them. "We have huge gaps of time in his movements we haven't filled in—he was out for five whole days, three before we were called in to help, and we only know bits and pieces of what he was doing during that time. Lloyd jumped the gun, finding us Hughes before we had all that information compiled. But if we can track down where Hughes was before we picked him up…."

"We can more precisely locate where he may have put his wife and kid, and where else he might have put bombs, if there are any others," Erica finished, nodding.

"Exactly," Charlie said. "We need to figure out where he slept, where he ate, what he drove, where he got gas….

"And come up with some sort of radius based on how far away he could have traveled," Ray finished. Charlie gave him a nod.

"Speaking of," Erica said, "I've been thinking about how he could have kidnapped the ex-wife and kid so easily. Moving people who don't want to be moved isn't easy. It' s not like it can be done in broad daylight. And you'd need a pretty large vehicle to make that work, like a van or a small truck. Where would he have gotten one, and where did he ditch it?"

"A van, the right one, can also be good cover," Ray noted. "It's hard to plant a bomb during school hours with no one noticing." He arched an eyebrow at Charlie. "Hughes either had a really good cover, or he did it late at night."

"And where'd he get the stuff to make the bombs?" Shea asked. "We tracked down that Patriot Front guy through the fertilizer he bought, we can do the same with Hughes."

"And not just the materials," Ray said, standing up to lean on his crutch, "there may be something in how he made the bombs as well. Man was just an arsonist before—upgrading to bombs is something he had to learn. He must have been talking to someone inside, and that someone might know more of his plans."

"Alright," Charlie said, smiling slightly and feeling more energetic than he had since before Lloyd was shot. "Erica, you and I will back-trace his movements, starting with that house he blew up in Redkill, using every scrap of information the state police and the local PD's have managed to scrounge up. Ray and Shea, you head back to Redkill, use their police station as a base of operations. Shea, you work with Julianne to track down anything you can on the explosives and figure out how the kidnapping might've gone down. Ray, you contact your friends at Fishkill, see if you can find out who Hughes hung with. Also, talk to the BCI, DHS and anyone else on the case—work with them," he gave shrug, "steal from them if you have to, to get us any more information we may not already have. We have to work together with the other agencies on this, but we need to win this one, just like we always do. You get this, and this task force, and everyone in it, is going to get noticed in a big way."

Erica actually grinned, starting to put her files away. Ray sat back down, giving Charlie a single nod, the closest he usually came to a smile.

Shea, however, was frowning. When he saw he had Charlie's gaze, he stood and sidled over to Charlie's side.

"Can I talk to you?" Shea asked, his voice pitched low. Charlie frowned.

"About?"

Shea grimaced. "Not here."

Charlie sighed, but didn't say no. He had an idea what Shea wanted to talk about, and wasn't looking forward to it. Turning, he walked out of the small room and out the back door into the rain, secretly hoping Shea wouldn't follow him out in the storm. Unfortunately, Shea was right behind him, stepping with Charlie under pretty ineffective tree-cover. Drops hit Charlie's head hard, the water running down the back of his neck and under his collar. Slowly, but surely, he felt the back of his shirt growing heavier and colder as it soaked up the rain.

"Okay," Charlie said, hunching his shoulders up against the wet and trying to stress the exasperation in his voice. "What's up?

"I wanna go with you and Erica."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to go back to Redkill with Ray."

Charlie wiped some of the water off his face before answering. "Look," he said, "I get that you don't want to go back there, but because of his leg, Ray's going to need help, and it has to be you. I need Erica in the field—she has more experience tracking people than both of us combined. You can do what you do in one place, with a phone."

"No, that's not….You're not hearing me." Shea squirmed slightly in his jacket, hunching more as the rain pelted down. "I said I don't want to go with Ray."

Charlie almost rolled his eyes. "It'll be fine. Ray will make sure that no one says or does anything to you while you're there, I promise."

"You're still not getting it." Shea finally looked Charlie in the eye. "I don't want to go with _Ray."_

Charlie frowned, the light bulb going off. "Wait," he said, trying to understand. "Your problem's with Ray?"

"Right now?" Shea asked. "Yeah, it is."

"Why?"

Shea looked off into the rain. "Because it is, alright?"

"No," Charlie said, frowning now. "What is your issue with Ray?"

Shea rocked back and forth for a moment, still looking anywhere except at Charlie, before shrugging. "I don't think he's got my back."

"Your back? What do you mean?"

"When cops look at you like you're dirt, you want to have someone with you that you can trust'll be there. Have your back, you know? And that ain't Ray. If it came down to a choice of us or them, I think he'd choose them." He shrugged again, shifting from foot to foot now.

"I'd probably choose them too, Shea, depending the circumstance."

Shea actually laughed at that, a short, sad sounding noise that the rain muffled. "No, I know. But I'm not talking about any circumstance, Charlie; I'm talking about this one. I'm talking Redkill's police station."

Charlie just frowned again, and Shea ducked his head.

"See," the con said, licking his lips, "most of the time, it doesn't matter what you really think of me or Lloyd or Erica. I get it. We all get it. But in that station, after what happened with Lloyd, there's going to be lots of anger and fear and paranoia going on, and if a con like me walks in there without back-up—"

"You'll have back up."

"No, I won't. Ray may respect what we do, Charlie, but not who we are. He calls us animals, treats us like scum, and he lets everyone around him know what he thinks. You think the cops in that station are going to just ignore me once they see Ray treating me like a criminal? They'll follow his example, and that example's for shit."

"You're wrong."

"And you're _blind_, Charlie. Ray's been looking down at us from the beginning!"

"And you've forgotten who put you on this team in the beginning, Shea," Charlie snarled. "You think I would have picked you for this task force? Hell no. _Ray's_ the reason you're here. Shit, Ray's the only reason this program even exists, because Ray is the one who actually thinks you're worth saving. Listening to you now, I gotta tell you, I've no idea why. Hell of a way to repay him, Daniels. You earn respect by giving it, remember? Or have you forgotten that too?"

Shea just closed his eyes at that.

Charlie shook his head. "You know what? We're done with this. We don't have the time to deal with whatever is going on inside that messed up head of yours. Man the hell up, Daniels. You've got a job to do and you need to do it. If you don't think you can, then you know what that means."

Shea's lips pursed. "Yeah, I know what that means," he snarled.

"Well?" asked Charlie. "Do I need to send you back to Maybelle?"

Shea drew in a shaky breath. "I can do my job."

"Good. Then you go to that station with Ray. You okay with that?"

"Guess I have to be."

"Guess you do," Charlie said.

Shea's mobile face shifted from anger to exasperation, but he didn't say anything else. He just walked out from under the tree and headed back inside Perrytown's police station.

As he watched him go, Charlie wished he couldn't hear Lloyd in his head calling him a jackass for the second time.

…

* * *

…

Click-_clack_, click-_clack_, click-_clack_, click-_clack_….

Lloyd woke slowly, listening partly in trepidation, partly in excitement to the sound echoing softly through the wooden door.

He knew that gait. He'd heard it most of his life, walking down the carpeted hallways of his home, walking down the ceramic floors of his many schools, walking down the cement flooring of his first hospital, walking down the marble floor of the courthouse….

He licked his lips, swallowed some bile, and considered whether to open his eyes. He wanted to pretend he was asleep. It wouldn't work.

He cracked his eyelids, blinking a couple of times to clear the muck. He smiled when he spotted Julianne slumped over her little table, head buried in her arms, obviously asleep. She looked really cute.

Also not awake for what was about to happen, for which he was extremely grateful

The click-clacks halted, just outside the door. He closed his eyes to mere slits. He didn't want to see her. Not really. He hadn't seen her since the day the verdict was read. Talked to her, sure, as often as he was allowed—she'd been his only link to the outside world after he was incarcerated—but seen her?

No. He'd told her not to come. And she didn't want to come. It had worked out well for both of them.

But she'd come anyway. _Damn it, Charlie_.

The door opened, softly, almost tentatively. It didn't swing all the way, as if she wasn't sure how much she really wanted to see.

Lloyd swallowed, and closed his eyes to the point where he was looking through his lashes, as if he were looking through the bars of a cell.

Dark red, thick hair. Dyed, of course. Always had been. It was perfectly coiffed, curled around the pale face in perfect waves. Also, as always.

The jacket was faux fur—faux mink most likely. Holding onto some veneer of their erstwhile fortunes, lost when he was still just a student, mainly to medical bills and therapist bills and liquor store bills.

She moved further into the room, stopping when she saw Julianne. She just stood there for a moment, staring at Julianne and Lloyd prayed desperately to whatever god was listening that Julianne didn't wake up.

Eventually, seeing that Julianne wasn't going to stir, she relaxed slightly and turned to face her son. A hand draped itself over the footboard, beautiful, sharp red nails drummed the wood veneer. She shifted sideways, and her nails scraped along the veneer, a soft but screeching sound that brought shivers up and down his body.

She must have seen, because she stopped. He couldn't hide anymore. He opened his eyes, and met hers. The lines around their edges were deeper, like scars. Her forehead, too, seemed more deeply lined, as if someone had cut along its width with a box cutter. Her lips were the same red as her nails, thin and pressed together, puckered slightly. Like his could get. He looked at his own future when he looked at her pinched, lined lips.

She looked away, her hand dropping from the footboard.

And then she turned, and, without a word, walked back to the door, opened it, and left.

Lloyd tried not to, but when he realized he could still smell the Chanel No. 5 in the air, the tears just dribbled down his face, useless and burning and dirty.

* * *

TBC….


	6. Chapter 6

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX: FIRE AND ICE**

Redkill Police Station was housed in the left hand corner of a massive, handsome stone edifice in the center of the small city of Redkill, New York. The same building also housed the courthouse, the town offices, and the county government. Like most large city halls in upstate New York, it was the Victorians idea of a castle, complete with turrets and battlements and gargoyles—and based on how well maintained it was, the people of the small city were damned proud of it.

Unfortunately, when it came to the inside, the people obviously cared a lot less—especially in the police station. The paint was peeling, the carpets had holes, and as for the smell….

Shea tried not to think about it, or breathe in.

"I'm sorry I have to put you in the basement." Officer Troy Samuels' smile was as wide as a politician's as he led them down the stairs, stepping over suspicious looking stains that looked older than he was. The stink of sweat and urine infiltrated the cement around them, thick and nasty, which meant the cells had to be down here as well.

But Shea hadn't really expected anything better. These cops didn't like them—one of their own was threatened for shooting Lloyd—and cops protected cops.

It just sucked, is all.

"We're in the process of renovating," the cop continued as he rounded the concrete landing and continued down, "but you know how these things go—one wall gets painted while the other three have to wait for next year's budget to get passed. I've been watching the painters sitting outside on the wall for the last few weeks, eating lunch for three hours a day. I wish I had their jobs sometimes."

"It's okay. We don't mind being in the basement," Ray said, leaning heavily on his crutches as he limped down the stairs. "We know you guys have something of a full house."

Samuels' smile grew. "Oh, you're not kidding. Between you guys, the state police, the FBI and now DHS butting in because of this Perrytown bomb, we've been running out of coffee faster than at a Starbucks convention."

Ray's eyebrows lifted, almost looking worried. "You're out of coffee?"

"Oh, no. No, not right now—we got more from our local place—but I'm sure we'll be doing more runs before this thing is over."

Ray's sigh of relief was almost funny, if Shea had been in the mood.

"Here we go," the cop said then, pulling a key-card out of his pocket as they came to what looked a hell of a lot like a cell door a few steps from the bottom. He swiped it over a blinking entry box to the right of the door, and the bars unlocked with an all too familiar "ka-_chunk_".

Shea couldn't help it, he just stopped cold, staring at the bars. Ray must have noticed, because he leaned forward to tap Officer Samuels on the shoulder.

"Hey, we getting a key-card?"

"Um…" the cop frowned, glancing at Shea before focusing on Ray. "I don't know if we have any extras for you. We weren't exactly expecting you to join us here."

"But we'll be locked in without one."

The cop flushed slightly, glancing at Shea again. "Well, see…."

"Tell you what," Ray replied, his voice low. "How about, after you drop us off, you go and get us a key-card while we give the governor a call, letting him know how helpful you're being. Whaddya say?"

Samuels stared at him, his eyes pinching slightly, but, eventually, he conceded. "I'll find you a loaner."

"Thanks," Ray said.

The officer shrugged, and pushed through the barred doorway, followed closely by Ray. Shea breathed out heavily, but lifted his head, not about to be beaten by a door anymore here than at Maybelle or Sing-Sing. Tensing only slightly as the door swung shut behind them, he looked around, taking in the cold walls and floor, all painted military green and regulation gray. There was the faint stench of new paint in the air, but, honestly, you couldn't tell where it had been applied; it was that dreary. Shea crossed his arms, hating this place already—it was too much like the real thing. He could almost feel the walls closing in.

"So where exactly are we?" Ray asked Samuels as they continued down the corridor.

"Sub-basement. Mostly storage rooms down here. Cells too—in fact, your man Hughes is down the hall behind that second gate, in a cell on the right." He pointed as he spoke, but there really wasn't much to see but more gates, resembling cell doors, cutting up the long hallway, splitting it up into sections. It really was set up like a typical prison. "Hughes is alone down here for the moment," Samuels continued, "but you could keep him company if you liked." He winked at Shea as he said that, smirking slightly. Shea met his gaze without wavering.

"You're putting us in one of the cells?" Ray asked, his tone unamused.

"Nah, I was just…." The smile on Samuel's face fell completely when he saw Ray's expression, and he coughed to cover his discomfort, looking away. "Sorry. We've put you in one of the storage rooms here on the right—mostly old papers in there, but there's a table and chairs. There's a phone too, so you can call out."

"We've got phones," Ray said, frowning slightly.

"You won't have reception. No one gets reception down here. You'll have to go back up the stairs to use your cells. But the landlines work fine, and there's ethernet jacks in the walls for laptops."

"Landlines, plural?"

The gray-haired cop smiled again. "I know what you're thinking. Bygone era, right? But when the storms get too rough for the cell phone signals to get through? We call 'em lifelines. Each room down here has its own number—makes an effective storm center."

Shea sighed slightly. Great. With Ray's leg, he'd be the one going upstairs to make most of his calls outside, which meant he'd be walking past all those cops looking at him like dirt, and those other federal agents who thought they were better than him and Ray.

He must have grunted or something, because Ray turned slightly to look at him, a dark expression on his face. A warning, probably. Shea felt his blood pump a little faster.

"What?" he demanded, chin up.

Ray snorted, and turned away. Samuels frowned at Shea, but kept moving, leading them to the second door on the right. Sign on the door read: "Cold Room."

"Cold room?" Shea asked.

"Cold case files," Samuels replied airily, as if it were obvious. "This is where we stick 'em. Someone along the way decided it was a better name than storage room SB-3." He unlocked the door as he spoke, walking inside.

Shea sneezed, breathed in, and sneezed again.

"It's a little dusty," Samuels noted.

"Ya think?" Shea said, sneezing again as he dropped the bags of maps and files he'd been carrying off his shoulders, sending up large puffs of dust. Shelves of boxes surrounded them, many stained with ages, their labels yellowed and text faded. Shea walked to one side and frowned, trying to read one of them—all he could make out was "double homicide" and "May 5, 1935". Whomever committed this one was long dead, and yet, here it was still, not quite forgotten. He touched it lightly, but drew his fingers back when they left a slight stain.

"Crap," he muttered, backing up. "Sorry." He wasn't sure if he was apologizing to the victims immortalized inside the box, or Samuels.

"It's okay." Samuels voice had softened, and when Shea looked over his shoulder at him, Samuels smile was gone, replaced by something akin to sadness. "They need to be better maintained, but we don't have the money. It takes millions to scan and send stuff away like this, and what small upstate town has that?"

Shea lowered his eyes. "Sorry," he said again.

Samuels grunted, and then cleared his throat. "Yes, well, anyway, there's the table. You've got one phone in here. Number's on it. What else can I get you?"

"A good map of the area, as many files as you can get us, and directions to the coffee machine," Ray said, sitting down in one of the folding chairs next to the empty wooden table in the middle of the room.

"Alrighty," Samuels replied. He returned to the door and gave them a nod. "I'll be right back with whatever I can grab, and I'll get you your first couple of coffees. I'll give you directions to the machine when I get back."

"And that key-card," Ray reminded.

Samuels paused, but gave a nod as he left, shutting the door behind him.

"Feels like a prison down here," Shea muttered as he started to pull out the laptop to put on the table.

"This building's so old, it probably was the county jail once," Ray said. "Where do you think they put people before they built the prisons?"

Shea just closed his eyes and sighed.

...

* * *

...

Julianne jumped when the phone went off by her ear. Blinking rapidly, she looked around to get her bearings, trying to remember where she was. Hospital—right. Lloyd! She looked in his direction, but his eyes were closed. Still asleep?

The phone went off again, and she grabbed it, hastily pressing it to her ear.

"Yes?"

"Miss Simms?"

"Yes."

"This is Detective Rivers of the BCI. We are just informing you of a new development that may affect your ongoing investigation into the Hughes kidnappings and potential bombings."

She grabbed a pencil, pressing the phone to her ear with her shoulder so she could write. "Go ahead."

"We have just received a report from the Maryville police of a missing person. I think you might know him."

...

* * *

...

"This was no fertilizer bomb," the forensics expert told Charlie, standing next to the still smoldering ruins of the house in Redkill where they'd found Hughes last night. "No way someone cooked this up on the fly—it was a professionally made bomb—small, compact, deadly. No question in my mind," he looked at Charlie again, "your fugitive purchased it."

"With what?" Erica asked softly, crossing her arms.

"How would I know?" he asked, sounding defensive. Charlie smiled at that.

"You're not supposed to," he explained. "Thanks for the information. Anything else you can tell us?"

"Um, yeah," the officer said. "I got a call from Perrytown just before you arrived. It's definitely the same bomb-manufacturer. You might be interested to know that there were also two bombs at that location. There was one in the principal's office, and one in a classroom. When the bomb squad disarmed the first bomb, it apparently triggered the other one to go off. They must've been wirelessly connected somehow. Again, pretty damned sophisticated tech."

Erica hummed softly, and, without looking at either of them, walked away towards the blackened husk of the house to look around.

Charlie sighed, then stuck out his hand to the officer. "Thank you for help."

The other man had been watching Erica with a frown, but at Charlie's words, he turned and took the hand. "Anytime. Let me know if you need anything else."

"Sure, and thanks again."

After the forensics expert walked away, Charlie headed over to where Erica stood on the road near the remains of the front steps, her hand tapping her chin.

"Thoughts?" he asked.

She gave a nod. "Hughes didn't purchase the bombs; he wouldn't have had the money. He had to have traded for them, and he probably did that in prison." She glanced at him. "The boys said they were going to find out who Hughes hung around with there, right? They should focus on people who could broker the kind of a deal that gets him explosives like this."

Charlie gave a nod and pulled out his phone to update Ray and Shea, while Erica continued to walk around. She moved to the rear of the house and looked up and down the street, her lips pursed.

"What are you thinking?" Charlie asked as he reached her.

"Where's the car that brought him here?" She frowned. "The cops said all the cars within a five block radius were accounted for. So how did he get here?"

Charlie looked around at the houses—most were early twentieth century, like the one Hughes had blown up. There were a few bungalows as well, some rundown, some not. Nothing unusual, or even all that interesting. Just an old, pitted residential street in a once quiet neighborhood.

Erica tilted her head as she peered down the road, and then pointed. "There."

Charlie spotted it at almost the same time—a foreclosure notice in front of a house about five hundred yards away. Walking up to it, they found an old gray colonial that had obviously seen better times, as had the old garage attached to it—there were smashed windows on the upper floors, pigeons nesting in the gutters, and half dead ivy and moss running up and down the baseboards. From the street, though, it appeared that everything was locked up tight despite the damage.

The driveway was a mess—potholes, cracks rife with weeds, old stains from long forgotten vehicles. Erica walked slowly over it, looking at everything, fingers tapping lightly on her thighs as she examined the ground. Next to a pot-hole, she crouched down and looked at what, to Charlie, looked like just another old stain. When he caught up to her, though, he saw what had caught her eye.

There was a sheen of ice on the tire stain next to the pothole.

"Old stains don't freeze," Erica noted unnecessarily. She stood and thumbed at the garage. "That enough to win the exigent circumstances argument?"

"Not yet," he replied, walking past her to the garage doors. He stopped when he saw the lock had already been broken—something you wouldn't have been able to tell from the street. "But a broken lock?" He pulled his gun out. "Gives us probable cause to look into a possible B&E."

Erica pulled the lock off, and then, on the count of three, she pulled open the doors so he could go inside, gun leading. Must and mildew greeted them, but it wasn't that strong, nor was the dust that thick inside the almost completely empty garage.

But only almost.

As if on cue, his phone rang—ID showed it was Julianne. He waved at Erica to start poking around inside before answering the phone.

"Hey Julianne, what's up?"

"BCI just called, Charlie. A missing persons report was just filed for Dr. Clement Madison."

"Madison?" Charlie repeated, frowning slightly. "Wait, isn't that—"

"Hughes' incarceration psychiatrist, yes. The one we met on Thursday morning." He could hear Julianne typing as she spoke. "Apparently, he hasn't been seen since Friday night, when he left his office. Considering who he is, BCI just issued a high alert. Oh, and his vehicle is missing, too."

"Charlie!" Erica walked out of the barn with a badge in one hand, her eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess," Charlie said to Julianne. "He drives a 2009 dark blue Honda Odyssey."

"Yes," Julianne said, sounding surprised. "How did you know?"

Charlie sighed, taking Dr. Madison's hospital badge from Erica, and then looked at the vehicle behind her. "Because I'm standing right in front of it."

...

* * *

...

"Alright," Ray said, hanging up the landline and putting his pencil down, "now we're getting somewhere."

Shea looked up from where he'd been scanning the forensics information on the bomb that Julianne had just emailed to them. Ray tossed the notebook he'd been writing on at him.

"Talked to a buddy at mine at Fishkill," Ray said. "He says that Hughes hung out a lot with skinheads, and, in particular, a guy named Bill Peters. Peters was in for trying to blow up some State offices in Albany."

"Skinheads," Shea said, frowning slightly. He picked up the notebook. "Who are these others?"

"Other people Hughes spent time with, but I'm betting Peters is our guy."

Shea gave a single nod. Ray tilted his head, trying to read the other man's expression.

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing. Just…."

"What?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what Hughes could have traded to get bombs out of the Aryan Brotherhood."

"Well, we can go talk to him, we can find out. My guess is, though, that he agreed to target a particular site on their groups' behalf."

Shea shrugged, still looking at the sheet of paper. After a moment, he frowned. "'We?' Wait, why do you need me there?"

Ray's eyebrows lifted. "You want to stay here?"

Shea stared at him a moment, and then looked down at the list again. "No, but I maybe have a faster way to get us some info. Give me twenty minutes to run down Peters and some of these other names with some friends of mine. Based on the forensics report Julianne just sent, we know the bombs are black market—I should be able to get a line on who sold them to Hughes up here. Not a huge market for that sort of thing, so it should stick out."

Ray stared at him a moment, and then shrugged. "Sure. I need to send these names to Julianne anyway, see if she can get a lead on any known associates of any of them." He waved a hand at the landline. "Go ahead."

"Uh, no…" Shea frowned. "Not that phone. You really think anyone I know will take a call with a police station ID?" He stood up and pulled his phone out of his pocket. "I gotta go outside. Need some privacy anyway."

Ray frowned, recalling the looks they'd received upon arriving upstairs. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

Shea cocked his head. "Why?" the convict demanded. "You don't trust me? There's a shocker."

Ray shuttered his gaze slightly, but he wasn't about to rise to that sort of bait. Fine, Shea wanted to play with fire? It was his funeral. He picked up the key-card that Officer Samuels had dropped off and tossed it across the table.

"You have twenty minutes," he told him.

Shea pursed his lips briefly, and then picked up the card and turned to leave.

"Shea," Ray called, stopping Shea at the door.

"Yeah?"

"Grab us some more coffee on your way back."

Shea snorted, and left.

Ray leaned back in his chair and felt the frown on his face deepen as he stared at the closed door.

...

* * *

...

Dr. Clement Madison's office building was a pretty nondescript brick affair sitting across the street from the big hospital in Redkill. It had an "Office Space For Lease" sign on the side and, when they'd checked the directory, it looked like only about half the building was even occupied. According to the security guard, Madison had left by the back stairs around 5:30 pm to get to the rear parking lot, where his van was. That was perfectly normal. The guard hadn't seen anything in the camera feeds to suggest the shrink had been jumped in the lot—though he did admit that the cameras didn't reach every corner.

As Erica walked out the front door with Charlie, she found herself staring up at the hospital, looking at the windows, wondering which one Lloyd was behind. She felt slightly guilty for not having thought about him since this morning—but if there was anything new, Julianne would have called, right? He was fine.

He was just fine.

"Erica?"

She blinked. He was a few feet away, just staring at her. He'd obviously been waiting for a little while.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," she said quickly, nodding. "Fine. Let's do this."

"Look, um," he frowned slightly, "maybe after this, we can go and visit—"

"No, no. I'm good. He's fine." She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "What are we looking for?"

He drew in a breath, but shrugged. "You tell me."

"Well," she said, looking up at the office building, "since Hughes took the shrink's car, and the shrink parked in the office building's parking lot—kidnapping probably happened in the parking lot. I suggest we check that out first, see what we can find. We should also see if we can't figure out what Hughes drove before taking Madison's Honda. Whatever got him from Perrytown to this office building is probably still in the lot, and since it's Sunday…."

"There won't be too many cars to check out," Charlie finished. "Should help narrow it down. Lead the way—I think it's just round there. In the meantime…." He pulled out his phone, putting it on speaker so Erica could listen in as they walked to the back of the building.

Julianne answered on the first ring. "Hi, Charlie."

"Hey. Did you compile a list of all the vehicles reported stolen in the county in the last five days?"

"Yep. They already found one of the cars near the first place that Hughes burned down on Tuesday, but none of the others have shown up yet."

"Any of the stolen vehicles large enough—?"

"To hide a kidnapped woman and her son? Yeah. Shea already asked me that question. Three SUVs, three trucks, and two vans. I sent him the list—he was going to use it to guess how Hughes did the kidnapping."

"Makes sense. Can you send that list of stolen vehicles to my phone as well?"

"Sure. It's on its way."

"Thanks." He pursed his lips. "And, uh, how's Lloyd?"

"He's asleep. Don't worry about us, Charlie. We're fine."

Charlie smiled slightly, catching Erica's eye. "Alright. Thanks, Julianne. See ya."

"See ya."

Hanging up, they walked around the corner and Erica paused briefly, scanning the lot. The white paneled truck in the back corner practically screamed 'bad guy vehicle.' She bee-lined for it, not about to lose any more time on this case. She heard Charlie jogging to catch up with her.

When he reached her side, she pointed towards the license plate in the back—it was caked in mud.

"Odd for winter," she said, "Don't you think? Frozen ground doesn't usually generate that much mud."

Charlie just flexed an eyebrow, and, when they reached the truck, he knelt down and pulled the pocket knife out of his jacket. Within moments, he'd scraped off enough mud to read the plate and compare it to the list Julianne had emailed him.

"This truck," he called, "was stolen from Boxville sometime on Tuesday night. It's a U-Haul."

Erica had rounded the side and was on her toes, peering inside the cab. "Boxville's only a couple of towns over from where the first house was burned down, right?" she asked.

"Yup."

When Erica rejoined Charlie in back, he was using his knife to scrape away some of what was clearly hastily applied white paint; beneath, the U-Haul label was easy to see.

"Definitely the U-Haul," he said. "He painted it, but not very well."

"Probably rushing," Erica said. "Nothing really obvious on the front seat, but I'm thinking we need to look inside."

"Uh…" Charlie frowned, making no move to grab the lever. Erica frowned slightly.

"Well?" she asked, reaching for the lever since he didn't seem to want to. "What are you waiting for?"

Charlie instantly grabbed her wrist, and drew her back. "We've no idea what's inside, or what might be triggered by opening that door."

Erica's eyes widened in understanding, and when he let her go, she crossed her arms and backed even further away from the truck. "Didn't think about that," she said, her voice sounding washed out in her ears.

"Yeah. Let's just say, I'm not in the mood for a three-fer," he said. "Two near miss explosions in twenty four hours is about all I can handle."

Erica just nodded and tried not to let Charlie see just how freaked out she actually was.

...

* * *

...

Shea was shaking, every muscle twitching, his hands in fists below the handcuffs keeping them behind his back. Two meaty, clammy hands held onto each of his arms, holding on as if afraid he'd leap away from them at any moment. His vision blurred and sweat dripped into his eyes—he couldn't even remember the last time he was this angry.

When they opened the door to the Cold Room and shoved him inside, Ray actually stood up, eyebrows raised high on his head—as if the bastard was surprised.

"What the hell's going on?" Ray demanded.

"We saw your fugitive slip outside, sir," the cop holding onto Shea's left arm said. "He had the key-card and a cell phone—sounded like he was contacting someone for a drop or a meet. We're not sure which. So—"

"Slip?" Ray was frowning now. "What do you mean 'slip?' Take those cuffs off him."

"Sir," the same cop said, gripping Shea more tightly, "I don't think you understand. This convict was outside—he had the key-card we gave you, which obviously allowed him to escape and—"

"He had that key-card because I gave it to him. Same with the cell phone. Now unlock those cuffs."

"You let him out?"

"Yeah, I did. He was out there following a lead." Ray hobbled closer, leaning on the table slightly. "I said get him out of those cuffs, Sergeant. I won't ask again."

"But—"

"Now."

With obvious reluctance, the hands dropped from his arms, and the cop to his left pulled out a set of keys. As he unlocked Shea's hands, he started talking to Ray again.

"May I suggest, sir, that you not allow your convict to walk around unescorted, especially in a police station. When we saw him head outside, we naturally assumed—"

"If I need your help with Daniels here," Ray snarled. "I'll ask for it. You're not to go near or touch this man again without checking with me first, understand?"

The cop didn't look up as he attached the cuffs to his belt, but there was no masking the scorn on his face. "Yes. sir."

"Now get out of here."

Neither cop hid their distrust as they turned to leave, but they kept their eyes averted, even though Shea tried to get them both to look at him, to give him an excuse. His hands were still fisted, every muscle screaming at him to start swinging, to take them all down. Only sheer force of will kept his arms by his sides.

Ray shook his head as the door shut behind the two cops, turning and sitting down heavily on one of the chairs in the room.

Slowly, painfully, Shea ungripped his hands, but still he moved from side to side, the sweat still pouring down his face, his eyes fixed on Ray now. The smug bastard.

As if Shea had insulted him out loud, Ray looked up, arching an eyebrow, expression cool. Shea wanted to smash his face in.

"What?" Ray said. "No 'thank you'? I just got you out of a bad situation there, Daniels."

"Got me out of it?" Shea whispered, feeling his hands fist again. "_You_ got me out of it?" He threw his hands wide. "Why do you think I was in it in the first place?"

Ray's eyebrows lifted. "I dunno. Maybe 'cause you went outside even though I told you it'd be a bad idea?"

Shea gave a laugh, shaking his head in disgust. "Oh yeah," he said. "That's it. You're always right, Ray. Can't ever do no wrong? You are _such_ an asshole."

Ray's eyes darkened. "Okay, that's it. I've had enough. Are you gonna tell me what this attitude is about?"

"Like you don't know."

"No, I don't know. I've no fucking idea, but it's wearing a little thin. You've been hostile towards me ever since—"

"You got Lloyd shot?" Shea finished, lifting his chin up. "Yeah. I've been a little hostile. You're just lucky it's me that's here and not Erica. She'd probably have taken your head off already if she knew what you did."

"What I did?" Ray had the arrogance to look surprised. "You think _I_ got Lloyd shot? What the hell planet are you on?"

"Oh, don't even try," Shea snapped. "You know I overhead you talking to that police chief back at the scene. You told them to watch us, told 'em we were dangerous. You tell them to treat us like criminals, so—"

"You _are_ criminals," Ray snarled.

"And so are you! Only difference between us is that you got special treatment."

"I didn't—"

"Oh, don't be such a hypocrite."

Ray growled, rising to his feet again. "Nothing I did in my past led to people's _deaths_, Shea, so don't you dare compare yourself to me."

"Oh yeah? You think you're so much better because your killings were sanctioned?"

Ray opened his mouth, then, as if physically pushing down a mental fire, he closed his eyes and lowered his head. Finally, he sat back down, hurt leg stretching out. "I'm not going there with you, Shea."

Shea rocked his jaw inside his mouth, his neck muscles straining. _Fuck it. Fuck Charlie's warnings! Fuck Ray!_ He was angry, and he was going to have his say.

"Fine," he said "You want to keep the past in the past? Good. So do I. So why don't you fucking do it when we're out in the field, when we're doing _your_ _fucking_ _job_?"

"I—"

"They almost killed Lloyd because of you! Because of what you told 'em to do. You know it, I know it, every cop in this damn station knows it!" He slammed his hand on the table. "Tell me something, Ray—if you're going to paint targets on all our backs out here, why they hell would we continue to work with you?"

"I don't get what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't, because nothing you ever do is wrong, is it? They dragged be down here in cuffs because they treat all the people working this case that way. This is your damn fault, Ray. You screwed up; you screwed up _bad._"

"So what you gonna do about it?" Ray demanded. "You gonna go back to the max house? Give up this deal? What about your girl? You gonna give up on her just because you think I've got a bad attitude?"

Shea just stared at him, not blinking. "Funny thing," he said, "I'm beginning to think I might be safer among the criminals than the cops, Ray. I'm not likely to get shot by one of them in the prison—hell, I run the damn prison. But out here, 'cause of you, I gotta watch my back from all sides." He narrowed his gaze to slits. "I'm thinking Vanessa'd rather I stay alive and keep my self-respect than continue to work with a two-faced prick like you."

Ray said nothing to that, just stared back, as intractable as ever. Eventually, Shea snarled and backed off, moving to stand in the corner, staring at nothing.

Behind him, he heard Ray snort and sit back down with a heavy thump.

"So," Ray said after a long while, "thought you were going to bring us back coffee?"

If he'd had a match, Shea would have set fire to that room right then.

* * *

TBC…

_I have no idea how Shea and Ray took this story over, but they really, really did. _


	7. Chapter 7

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN: OPENING DOORS**

Charlie stood about fifty feet back with Erica, arms crossed as the rear of the U-Haul was opened by a small robot, the machine unlocking and drawing the doors open with the speed of a sloth.

When nothing happened, the robot was drawn back by its operator, and a three, well-armored men and women approached the truck. They already knew, from using a listening device, that there was no one alive in there, so that left the other option.

Everyone was moving slowly, cautiously, carefully. Next to him, Erica huffed and shifted, arms crossed, then hung loose by her sides, then akimbo, hands pressed to her hips. He knew how she felt.

His phone rang, startling him slightly, and he heard Erica breathe out slowly from where she'd jumped about a foot away from him.

"Ray."

"Hey Charlie. You're on speaker. How's it going?"

Charlie grimaced, wincing as one of the bomb squad climbed up into the truck. When nothing happened, he sighed in relief and then gestured to Erica to come closer so she could listen in. "Slow. Hang on a minute."

They moved away from the other police and federal agents hanging around the back of the parking lot. Once he was sure no one was listening in, he asked:

"What've you got?"

"We've got some leads, good and bad. We'll give you the bad first. Shea, go ahead."

"Hey Charlie," Shea's voice called out, slightly tinny, as if he were across the room from the phone.

"Shea. What have you got?"

"I tracked down who sold Hughes the bombs—and, before you ask, no I'm not going to tell you who it is or how he got them."

"Understood. It's the ATF's problem anyway. What did you learn?"

"He picked Hughes up in a town not far from Fishkill on Wednesday morning and drove him to Boxville, where he sold Hughes a U-Haul truck filled with a bunch of ready-made bombs. It was all purchased by money through an organization called White Sun—at least, that was the name on the bank account. Julianne's looking it up now."

"You ever heard of White Sun?"

"Sort of. From what I hear, they're big into swastikas and shaving their heads, and they're not too interested in working with people like you and me, if you get my meaning."

"Yeah," Charlie said, holding back a sneer. "I get your meaning. How many bombs did he give him?"

"Nine."

Charlie blew out a breath. "_Nine_? There are nine bombs?" He saw Erica look at him sharply from where she was trying to listen in.

"Yeah. Said they were originally army ordinance, but upgraded and modified, so they'll be harder to disarm. He also told me that the theory about the bombs are wirelessly connected is true—you try to disarm one, any other bombs in a hundred yard radius go off. Those folks you with know that?"

Charlie looked at the truck, at the three people now moving around inside it, still moving with extreme caution.

"Yeah, they suspect, but we'll let them know we have confirmation." He sighed heavily. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Only that he wanted me to know that, had he known Hughes was going to put the bombs in a school, he wouldn't have sold them to him. He doesn't think White Sun would've either. That's not their thing, killing kids."

Charlie snorted. As if that mattered. "Well, we have the U-Haul. With any luck, the other seven bombs are inside."

"Yeah," Shea agreed.

"Good job, Shea," Charlie added. "So what's the good news?"

"That'd be mine," Ray said. "Based on what Shea found out, I think I know who might've brokered the sale of the bombs to Hughes. Guy named Bill Peters; he's a skinhead, in for life at Fishkill, and from what my friends there tell me, he rules the local chapter of the Aryan Brotherhood. I was going to go have a chat with him."

"Peters," Erica said. "Isn't he the Albany bomber?"

"That's the one."

"Alright, sounds like a plan," Charlie told them. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Where are you headed after this?"

"Perrytown. We're still trying to get all Hughes's movements mapped."

"Sounds good," Ray said. "We'll wait—"

"Hang on," Charlie said, looking at where one of the bomb squad members was now walking in their direction—it looked like their leader, whom he'd only met briefly when she'd arrived. "Looks like they've finished sweeping the truck." He caught her attention and jogged over to meet her, Erica in tow.

As she approached, the bomb squad leader pulled off her helmet, revealing a grim expression. She waved at everyone to gather, including the other police and agents hanging around, but it was to Charlie that she reported.

"You're the one who called this in, yeah?" she asked him, tucking her helmet under her arm.

"I am," he said, holding the phone so that Ray and Shea could hear her. "I'm Deputy Marshal DuChamp of the U.S. Marshals Service."

"Sergeant Albireo Vega. I'm in charge of the bomb squad."

Charlie nodded. "What did you find?"

"Some bomb equipment, wires, plugs, that sort of thing. However, the main find are the cases—four of them, long and metal, filled with shock absorbent packaging, just like the ones military uses to transport ordinance. Identical, even. And based on what we found, there was more than one bomb in that truck. It's hard to tell how many, since we don't know how many cases there were originally, but it could be as many as a dozen. We'll know more once we have forensics go over it."

"Any idea on the type of bomb?" asked a man in a DHS jacket.

"Very sophisticated tech. Suffice it to say, these were no internet-made fertilizer bombs. It's pretty obvious that these were stolen military ordinance—and really good ordinance at that." She looked up at Charlie again. "Based on the size of the packing cases, the bombs are small, about the size of a large dictionary. They could easily fit in a briefcase or a backpack. The frame is likely compact and fairly tough—though once armed, it shouldn't be moved, except very, very carefully. And if it's the bomb we think it is, it is also capable of wireless detonation and the interface could connect it to other bombs in the vicinity, which corresponds to what we saw in Perrytown."

"When you say its wireless…" Erica looked nervously at the phone in Charlie's hand. "Could a phone set it off?"

Sergeant Vega smiled, shaking her head. "A cell phone won't set it off. It's set to a specific frequency not used by phones, or else these things would be going off every time someone made a call nearby. Think of it more like a wireless car key."

"You see anything else in the van?" Charlie asked.

She nodded. "There's also evidence that he may have been transporting more than just bombs. There's rope in the back, with what looks like bloodstains on it. There's also what looks like a child's jacket. That make sense to you?"

He grimaced. "Unfortunately."

"We also found a few changes of clothing—uniforms mostly. A janitor's uniform, a painter's uniform, and what looks like a Central Hudson uniform."

"Ways to get into buildings," Charlie noted. Vega nodded.

"And no way of knowing which ones," she said. "You could get into nearly any building with uniforms like those. All I can suggest is that you get your fugitive to tell us exactly where he put the other bombs. These are serious ordinance. You could hide them just about anywhere, and the effective radius they have is huge, enough to take down a whole building, as you saw in Perrytown." She shook her head. "They could take out a lot more than just a school, if planted right."

Charlie hit the speaker button off on his phone and pressed it to his ear, not looking away from the woman. "You hear that, Ray?"

"Yeah. We're on it. I'll get Peters to talk, one way or another."

"Good luck."

"You too." Ray hung up, and Charlie put the phone down. Sergeant Vega arched an eyebrow, looking at his phone and then at him.

"We'll find the other bombs," Charlie told her. "Do me a favor and don't leave Redkill. I have a feeling we'll be needing your team again soon."

Her nod was cool. "Just find them. We'll do the rest."

…

* * *

…

Ray grimaced, looking up at the reddening sky above their heads, the heavy cloud turning flame-colored as the sun went down. He flipped on the headlights of the car they'd borrowed, and glanced over at Shea. The con was staring morosely out the window, seemingly entranced by the darkening landscape whipping by on the highway.

Shea had said very little since their blow up back in Redkill. He continued to do his job, speaking to Ray as much as he needed to, but any glint of the fast-talking, clever Shea Daniels had vanished behind what Ray could only describe as a dead-faced mask. Ray wasn't much of one for conversation, but the silence was getting to him a little.

Maybe more than a little.

The phone ringing was almost a relief. Glancing at it, he popped it open and hit the speaker before handing it to Shea to hold.

"Talk fast, Julianne," he said, turning off of Route 84 at the Fishkill exit. The prison was clearly visible, the red brick lit up in the golden light of early evening. "We're leaving the highway and I don't know how much longer we'll have reception."

"Will do," she promised, her voice sounding thin. "Here's what I've learned. The FBI has confirmed that White Sun is, as you guessed, a white supremacist organization fronting as a small trading company. Peters was one of the founding members, but is supposedly no longer part of the group and hasn't been for years. The FBI did some pretty thorough research into the organization's make-up, but couldn't find enough evidence to tie it to Peters' attempted bombing of the state legislature in Albany. My contact over there, though, says that if you can tie the two together after you talk to Peters, they'd be in our debt."

"Doubtful, but maybe we'll get lucky."

"I've the names of some of the other members and officers. I've sent the information about it to your phone. I thought maybe Shea could check the names with his contacts while you're in the prison."

Ray glanced at his still silent partner. "I'm sure he'll relish it."

"Lloyd woken up yet?" Shea asked, looking down at the phone as if he could see Julianne on the other side.

"Off and on. He hasn't been able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time." Julianne's worry was clear, even over the poor line. "I don't think he's supposed to be sleeping this much and when he's awake, he seems to be in a lot of pain, but…no one has seemed concerned that's checked on him, so I guess he's still fine."

Shea's lips pursed, and he turned to look out the window again. Ray frowned.

"Okay," he said, wishing he could shake Shea out of his snit. "Thanks, Julianne. We'll be in touch."

"Good luck," she said, and hung up. Shea closed the connection on this end and fiddled with the phone, probably to get the list of names Julianne sent.

At the same moment, Ray pulled into the driveway leading up to the prison. At the first gate, he showed the guard their credentials, and was waved through. The second gate was a repeat of the first, and they headed towards the building where Peters was being held. Shea had put the phone down and was just staring up at the buildings—it looked like he was tracking the movements of the guards on the walls. Studying them, like someone thinking about how to get around them.

Ray frowned. Fact was, since Shea had made his pronouncement, Ray had begun to wonder if Shea might actually try to run. If he really was considering giving up the deal, there wasn't much holding him to finish off this case. At first, he thought wanting to make sure Lloyd was okay would keep him still, but, the more he listened, the more he realized that it wasn't really Lloyd that Shea cared about. Shea was, as he always had been, primarily worried about Shea.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Ray sighed softly. "You're coming in," he said.

Shea gave a nod, as if he'd expected that. "So they can watch me while you go talk to Peters."

"I know you're thinking of running," Ray continued. "Don't."

The other man snorted. "I'm thinking about a lot of things," Shea said, his voice as close to monotone as Shea can get. He turned to look at Ray. "And you don't know me half as well as you think you do, Zancanelli."

Ray tried to read the other man's face, but the dead expression was still fixed well in place. After a moment, he gave a shrug.

"Maybe you don't know me all that well either, Daniels."

Shea just flashed an ugly smirk.

Ray gripped the steering wheel hard, jerking it hard as they pulled into a parking spot near the gate.

"Come on," he said, shoving the car into park and getting out the car. "Let's go."

Shea stared at him a moment, but he soon got out of the car and followed.

…

* * *

…

Julianne's watch chimed the dinner hour, to warn her that someone would be coming soon with food, and she looked expectantly at the door. When no one immediately knocked, she sighed and glanced over at the bed, and was surprised to see a pair of pale eyes blinking at her muzzily. She smiled in sheer happiness; she couldn't help it. Lloyd looked momentarily surprised, but then he smiled in return.

"You're awake again," she said.

"Apparently," he agreed, still hoarse from his earlier argument with the surgeon. "You still working on the case?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she admitted. "It's...it's gotten a little nuts."

"You said earlier I could help," he whispered then. "So tell me."

She stared at him for a moment, and then looked down again at all the emails on her laptop—there were just so many. She shook her head.

"I don't know where to start."

"Try the beginning," Lloyd said, reaching for the cup of water next to his bed. "Charlie must have interrogated Hughes. What did he find out?"

She grimaced. "Not a lot. Hughes just recited a line from a poem at him."

"A poem?" Lloyd actually smiled, sipping at the cup. "You're kidding."

She shook her head. "When Charlie asked Hughes how long we had to find Meredith and Connor, he quoted the last two lines of the John Donne poem. You know, the one everyone quotes."

"'No Man Is An Island'?"

"That's the one. "

Lloyd almost looked pained by that. "Oh what a terrible cliché. He quoted the 'for whom the bell tolls' bit?"

"Yeah."

"Christ. Poor Charlie. Did Hughes at least quote it correctly?"

Julianne had to smile at that. "No." She tilted her head. "Any thoughts on what it might mean?"

Lloyd pursed his lips briefly, but, after a moment, shook his head. "No. I mean, the most obvious is that they're near a bell somewhere, but that seems too easy."

"Easy?" Julianne's eyebrows shot up. "Are you kidding? I spent most of last night trying to cross-reference places where Hughes might have felt in control against places that have or are near bells, and, seriously, the list just goes on forever. I couldn't even—"

"Wait," Lloyd raised a hand, his expression showing confusion. "Why would you look for places where Hughes might have felt 'in control?' What does that even mean?"

Julianne blinked quickly. "But…" She frowned then. "But that's what you told us to look for. You said that he'd put Meredith and Connor Hughes in a place where he felt in control."

Lloyd shook his head. "No. No, you heard wrong." He frowned, and actually looked a little annoyed. "It's not a place where Hughes feels 'in control'; it's a place where he can show off his control over them. That's why he doesn't want to kill them—he wants to show them that he has, and probably always will, have power over their lives somehow."

"Meaning?"

He frowned slightly. "I don't know yet. I figured, when you talked to Hughes, he'd tell you himself. Someone like that craves the limelight—I thought for sure he'd tell Charlie or Ray what he was up to."

"Well, he didn't."

"Not even a hint?"

"Just the poem."

"Huh," he said. "Damn. I would have thought he'd have been crowing about his achievements in front of his favorite audience." He frowned suddenly, his eyes darting around, as if they were chasing his thoughts. "If he hasn't yet, then that must mean his plan hasn't been fully achieved. He's waiting for something to happen before he can rub our faces in it. But what? And how is the ex-wife and son mixed up in it?"

Julianne bit her lip. "Well," she said slowly, "it might have something to do with the nine bombs he's planted around the area."

Lloyd's eyes opened so wide at that, it was almost comical. "Wait, what?" He almost dropped the cup, scrambling for it before it spilled. "Bombs? Who said anything about bombs? I mean, one house sure, but….Nine? Where did he get nine bombs?"

So Julianne told him about Shea tracking down the man who'd sold Hughes the bombs, and how only three were accounted for at the moment: the one that blew up the house and the two at Perrytown. She also told him about Dr. Madison's kidnapping, about Bill Peters and, lastly, about White Sun. Lloyd waved a hand at the white supremacists, as if they weren't important.

"Go back to Perrytown," he said. "We'll start there. Where were the bombs?"

"One was in the maintenance closet, with the bells—"

"Which, I suppose, might go with the poem," Lloyd muttered. "I'm assuming that's what Charlie thinks."

"Yes," Julianne said. "The other was in a classroom."

"His son's?"

"Actually," Julianne called up the school's information she'd collected. "No. It was another room."

"Another homeroom?"

"Yes."

Lloyd frowned, and shifted to sit up again—only to wince again in pain. This time, he shuddered slightly, and Julianne almost stood up at how much pain was visible on his face. He breathed out slowly, and looked up at her. Julianne frowned.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

He breathed out slowly again, but nodded. "Tell me…," he croaked, and then coughed harshly. Julianne did get to her feet then, but he help up a hand. "I'm fine," he told her, picking up the cup again. After a couple of sips, he coughed again and looked at her. His voice was still rough as he said, "Tell me about Connor. Did he visit his father?"

Julianne hesitated a moment, but, against what felt like her better judgment, she sat down and pulled up Hughes's prison record. She frowned slightly.

"Yes. A couple of times a year, looks like. Always with his mom, though…." She trailed off, frowning deeply. "It looks like Connor might have visited on his own once a few months ago. He was given admittance with officer escort."

"By himself?" Lloyd repeated. "Really?" He frowned. "Any idea what was happening in his life at that time? A birthday, maybe? Anniversary of something?"

Julianne called up Connor's school records again, comparing dates. She hummed softly.

"What?" Lloyd asked.

"His visit coincides with a report Meredith Hughes filed with the school about her son being bullied. I guess some of the kids were attacking him for having a dad in prison. She wanted it stopped."

"Did it?"

"No. There's a couple more reports after the date that he visited his father. There are even some other kids named."

When she looked up, Lloyd's gaze had narrowed slightly. "He went to ask his dad for advice; didn't want his mom to know."

Julianne nodded. "Looks like."

"Out of curiosity, the classroom that was bombed, was that the homeroom for any of the kids who were named as picking on Connor?"

Julianne clicked a few more keys, and compared the information from the school's roster to that of the bomb report. She huffed in surprise, and nodded. "All three of the boys named on here were in that classroom." She looked back at Lloyd. "You don't think—"

"Daddy showing for his kid, yeah," Lloyd said. "What better way to teach you kid how to deal with bullies then to kill them in a fiery explosion." He looked down, rubbing his hand against his forehead.

Julianne frowned, "Well, that explains why he targeted the school."

"No, not completely," Lloyd said, looking up again, frowning deeply. "It's not enough. Just bombing the school wouldn't give him the control over his son he wanted. He'd….He'd need to show him, really show him…." Lloyd suddenly pointed at Julianne, his hand trembling with excitement. "By forcing him to _watch_. Connor's there! Perrytown! He's got to be there. Somewhere."

Julianne shook his head. "They scoured the whole school before the bomb went off, looking for him. He wasn't inside."

"No, not inside. He'll be where he could see the bomb go off, but in a place no one would look for him." He sat up more. "You said Charlie and Erica are on their way to Perrytown. You have to tell them what I just told you. Tell them Connor's there somewhere. They have to…to…." He grimaced, falling back against the pillow, gasping for air, as if he'd just run a marathon. "_Ow_," he grunted.

Julianne stood up. "You need help. I'm going to—"

"No, no, I'm okay. Just…over-exerted. I whine when I'm in pain, don't you know that?" He smiled weakly. "Just call them. Please."

She bit her bottom lip, torn, but then Lloyd looked at her, his eyes as clear as they always were when he was certain of something.

"Call them," he said again. "Julianne, the boy is there. I promise you. And if he's been alone for at least two days, with no food or water…."

He seemed to be breathing a little easier now, so Julianne shoved down her worry and picked up her phone.

…

* * *

…

"He's certain?" Charlie asked, pressing the gas pedal closer to the floor as they reached the outskirts of Perrytown.

"Dead certain," Julianne said. "He says Connor will have a direct line of sight to the school, and it'll be in a place no one would look."

"But what does that mean?"

"I don't know, but—"

"I know where he is," Erica said suddenly, her eyes bright in the light of the dashboard lights. She started to smile, sitting forward on the seat a little. "I know _exactly _where he is."

...

* * *

TBC…


	8. Chapter 8

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT: FEVERISH**

The local police chief and one other cruiser met them at the town line, and Charlie indicated that they follow him to the school, their lights bright against the now dark sky.

"You're sure about this?" Charlie asked Erica, spotting the school coming up on the left. There were light-trucks on it, keeping it well lit despite the late hour, as people still worked through the wreckage.

"Absolutely," Erica replied, barely glancing at the ruined school as they passed it. "Head down this next street. Go to that house there, the one with the porch." She pointed to a tall Georgian brick house with slate tiles, easily the nicest house on the street. "I remember seeing it when we first arrived here, it stuck out amongst all the others around it. It would have stuck out for Hughes too, and add the fact that it's got a foreclosure sign in front of it—"

"Means no one is touching it until it gets sold," Charlie said, turning down the street she'd indicated. "Just like the house in Redkill where he stashed Madison's van."

"And check out the second floor, those big bay windows…." She gestured upwards as they pulled to a stop in front of the home, and Charlie leaned out to look up. The curtains were drawn back, whereas they were closed over every other window in the house. "He's there, in that room," Erica said. "I'm sure of it. No other reason for those curtains to be open."

Charlie couldn't fault that logic. Climbing out, he nodded to the local police that came to stand next to him.

"Here?" the chief asked, tipping his hat back and peering up at the home. "You sure? This place hasn't been lived in for over six months."

"That's why," Charlie said. "Can you get us in?"

"Surely." The chief strode up the steps onto the porch and, upon reaching the front door, pulled his nightstick to smash through one of the windows.

"Wait! Try the door!" Erica said quickly, jogging up the steps behind Charlie. "I'm betting it's not locked."

The chief frowned at her, but lowered the nightstick and grabbed the doorknob. His eyebrows lifted high on his head as the lock clicked and the heavy wooden door swung wide open.

"Careful," Charlie said then, before the chief could go inside. "We don't think the house is booby-trapped, but the way our luck is running…."

The chief sighed but nodded, and, flipping on his flashlight, he made a sweep of the front entryway. Not seeing anything, he led the way inside, a couple of his men right behind him.

Charlie could feel Erica dancing nervously next to him, twitching, wanting to run straight upstairs to the room with the bay window.

The chief tried the lights, but it was quickly evident that the power had been shut off. Not surprising if no one had been inside here for over six months.

Upon following the cops into the front hall, Charlie pointed the chief up the stairs to the right. The older man nodded and started up the carpeted steps, flashlight leading the way, checking every crease and line for danger. The old wood underneath creaked with each step, as loud as screams in Charlie's ears.

Shoving past, Erica practically climbed over Charlie so that she could go up the stairs behind the chief, and Charlie had to shake his head. Put a child in danger, and Erica Reed was a force to be reckoned with.

The second floor was eerily quiet as the chief swept the landing and tested the closed doors on either side. Erica pointed over his shoulder at the one that obviously led to the front of this house. With a nod, the chief moved forward, still sweeping with the flashlight before every step. Erica was practically bouncing on his heels.

At the threshold, the chief blew the air out of his cheeks and slowly turned the knob. The door opened easily, and he nudged it gently ajar.

Something inside whimpered, and the chief opened the door more fully.

The smell of urine and sweat greeted them, pungent and strong, along with something tinnier—like fear.

"Oh my god," the chief whispered.

Erica pushed him aside and all but ran to the little boy tied to the chair in front of the window, his arms bound by his sides. His head was bowed to his chest, barely aware as Erica kneeled in front of him, pushing his hair back and trying to see his eyes.

"Connor?" she called. "Connor Hughes, can you hear me?"

"I'll call an ambulance," the chief said, already pulling his phone.

"And protective services," Charlie said as he took in the rest of the room. It was sparsely furnished—stuff that, whomever lived here before, just decided not to take with them. It appeared barely touched, except for the boy in the chair and, to his right, a TV tray table with a big cup on it, complete with a very long straw. The cup was set on the edge, the water in it almost completely drained down. Hughes had left his son some water—how kind.

He moved around and crouched down next to where Erica was still trying to get Connor to respond to her.

"Come on, sweetheart," she begged, lifting his chin up. "Talk to me."

The boy blinked a little, and, for a moment, he seemed to look straight at Erica, but then his eyes closed again and he whimpered. Charlie checked the ropes—they weren't too tight, though the rope burns on the boy'swrists were nasty. A quick check showed that he had circulation in his arms and hands though, so Charlie pulled out his knife and started sawing.

When the last rope snapped, Erica reached up and the boy fell into her arms, just wrapping his arms around her as tightly as he could, still whimpering softly. Erica hugged him back, looking over his head at Charlie, her eyes shining. After a moment, she smiled.

And for the first time since Lloyd was shot, Charlie felt like they might win this thing.

…

* * *

…

"We know Hughes was given nine bombs," Ray said, slamming his hand on the plastic table. "And we know it was White Sun that paid for them. Are you still going to sit there and tell me you knew nothing about it?"

" I'm sorry, but I don't see how I can help you, Marshal." Bill Peters leaned back in his chair, his dark blue eyes narrowed into slits, the light gleaming off his shaved head. "Just because I hung out with the guy, doesn't mean I have any clue what he's up to. His escape was just as big a surprise to me as it was to everyone else. And as for White Sun, I haven't been in touch with that organization since I left the company ten years ago. If Hughes's been in touch with them…" He shrugged. "It has nothing to do with me."

"So you say." Ray leaned forward as Bill leaned back, and part of him wished the glass between them would disappear so that he could beat the answer out of the guy. A few hits and—

"So I do say," Peters said. "In fact, I really don't see why I even have to talk to you anymore. You interrupted my dinner, and the creamed corn was looking especially good this evening."

Ray snorted. "This isn't a joke, Peters. Innocent people are being hurt by this guy."

"I'm sure you think they're innocent, anyway," Peters sneered. He pushed his chair back suddenly, standing up so that he could look down at Ray. "Look, I can't help you, Marshal, so why don't you—"

"He hit a _school_, Peters. He used two of your bombs to blow up an elementary school in Perrytown." Ray stood up so he was eye-level with the man on the other side of the glass, ignoring the burn in his hurt leg. "He would have killed kids who haven't even made it into the double digits if we hadn't found the bombs in time. And yeah, I think they're pretty damned innocent when they can't even read yet."

Peters stared at him, and something akin to surprised flitted briefly across his face. "What?" he asked, his voice low.

Ray leaned against the plastic counter, his face almost to the glass.

"Perrytown Elementary School was blown to pieces this morning by two of White Sun's bombs. And we're not talking about an inner city school, here. This was a rural school in a mostly white town about an hour from here. The kids of hard working folk, farmers mostly, just trying to make a living—the kind I thought you people wanted to protect. Half the town's being foreclosed on because it's so poor. Now you tell me, is that the kind of target White Sun really wants to take down?"

Peters' expression darkened, the sneer back on his face. "You're lying," he said.

"I'm sure as hell not. You want to see the pictures?" Ray picked up his phone and, clicking to a shot of the school on fire, pressed it up against the glass. "That look like I'm lying to you?"

Peters face twitched, and Ray could see the confusion for a moment. Then it went away, and Peters lifted his head.

"Could be anything."

Ray flipped to the next shot, this time with the school's name clearly visible on the side, flames brushing against the metal letters. Peters breathed out heavily, his nostrils flaring as he looked at the photo. When he looked at Ray again, there was no sign of the amused man from before.

"Even if I knew what that was about," Peters ground out, "I wouldn't tell you."

"He's not hitting what you wanted him to hit, Peters. Man isn't sane. So you if you know anything, _anything_, about what it is that he might be going after…"

Peters shook his head, his eyes shifting away. "I don't."

"Listen to me," Ray pressed. "Even if he takes out whatever it is you want him to, it's too late. You really think anyone's going to see him as a hero now? Even White Sun, whatever the hell they believe in, can't possibly be into killing innocent kids. And when all this is said and done, that is all people are going to remember – that this crackpot hit a school. So you tell me, Peters. Who gets the blame when this all goes down? And if you're the one who vouched for him with White Sun, you really think they're ever going to listen to you again?"

Peters just continued to stare at him, but his left eye was twitching.

Ray gave a nod. "Still saying you don't know what else Hughes might be after?"

Peters looked away again.

Ray shook his head in disgust. "Fine. Tell you what…" He pulled a card out with his name on it and a pen, and wrote the phone number on it for the Cold Room in Redkill. "Here's my number. I'll tell the guard to allow you three calls tonight." He looked up at Peters. "Make whatever calls you need to verify what I just told you. If I'm telling the truth and you suddenly remember something," he bobbed his head, "you give me a call."

He stepped back and handed the card to the prison guard standing behind him. The guard gave a nod.

Peters watched him a moment longer, and then turned his back to him. Ray didn't bother to say goodbye—he just left, pushing through the doors and limping into the small waiting room beyond.

Shea looked up from where he'd been doing something on the cell phone Ray had left him. Ray stared at it, then at him. Shea's eyes narrowed.

"I was getting info on the names of the White Sun people," he said. "As ordered."

Ray breathed out slowly, and limped past him. He heard Shea stand up and follow him.

"He tell you anything?" Shea asked.

"Not yet," Ray said, pushing through the outer doors and into the cool night air.

…

* * *

…

"He's not talking?" Lloyd's weak voice asked over the phone.

"No, not yet," Charlie replied, watching the paramedics struggling to check the boy out despite the fact that he was still glued to Erica inside the ambulance—so far, all they'd managed to do was get an IV in his arm. "He's not lifted his head from Erica's shoulders since we found him in the house. She doesn't seem interested in letting him go either."

Lloyd snorted softly, and Charlie had to smile, imagining the psychiatrist's eyeroll.

"Well," Lloyd said then, "then she needs to get him to talk."

"How?"

"Tell her to use her own daughter, to tell him a story about how much she wants to be with her. See if he'll respond with something about wanting to be with his own mom. It should work."

"Erica will hate that."

"I know. I don't care." Lloyd coughed then. "And I need to listen in."

Charlie sighed, but said he would do it. Reluctantly, he carried the phone over to Erica and put it in her free hand (the other was wrapped around the boy in her arms). When she looked up, he bent over to whisper in her ear what Lloyd had just asked her to do. As he leaned back, he could see the fury in her gaze, so he gestured at her to calm down, pointing to the boy.

"It's the fastest way," he said. "You have to do this."

Her eyes flashed angrily, but she slumped slightly, as if in resignation. With obvious reluctance, she shifted so that Connor wasn't as tightly pressed to her and she could see his face.

"Hey," she said to him, brushing his hair back from his eyes. "How you doing?"

Connor didn't speak, he simply stared blankly. Charlie couldn't even tell if he was really seeing them or not. Erica tried a smile.

"You know," she told the boy, "I have a little girl myself. She's a little younger than you, but she's mine and I love her very much."

Charlie crossed his arms, trying to not be impatient.

"I don't get to see her very often, though," Erica continued. "I was taken away from her. But I desperately want to be with her again. She's all I have in the world." She tilted her head. "Do you know what that's like?"

Connor blinked, and he finally seemed to look up at her. After a moment, he nodded.

"I want my mom," he whispered.

Erica smiled. "I know," she said. "And I want to find her for you. You know that, right?"

Connor seemed to just study her. Finally, he nodded again.

"Good," Erica said, hugging him a little more closely. "Good."

Connor sniffed. "Will…will you find her?"

"I hope so. I'm going to try," Erica said, "me and a lot of other people. But we don't have enough information yet. We need your help." She looked up at Charlie, clearly hesitating, and he nodded. She shook her head unhappily. "Connor," she asked, "do you know who took her?"

Connor's head dropped down low, hiding his face from her behind his hair. Erica shushed softly, brushing his hair back.

"It's okay," she promised. "It's not your fault."

"But I let him in," Connor whispered.

"It's not your fault. It's not your fault at all. You need to believe that. It's all his. Okay?"

Connor tried to look away, but Erica trapped his chin on her fingers.

"It's not your fault," she said again. Connor looked at her again, and the first glint of tears filled his eyes.

"It was my dad," he whispered, his voice shaking. "He took her. He put me here, and then he took her."

Erica nodded. "Do you know where?"

Connor shook his head. "Just…something about…" He sniffed. "He was going to make her see."

"See what?"

Connor shook his head. "I don't know."

Erica licked her lips, then smiled again. "It's okay. He say anything else?"

Connor looked down. "I…yeah. Before he left."

"What did he say?"

"He said…he said that he lived in me now. That, when this was over, I would be him." The boy looked up, the tears falling freely now down his already heavily streaked face, his bottom lip trembling hard. "I don't want to be him. Please say I won't ever be him."

"Oh god, sweetie," Erica pulled him close, dropping the phone in her hand to the floor of the ambulance. "You won't. I swear you won't." She rocked him close. "I promise."

Charlie frowned slightly, picking the phone up and walking away from the ambulance.

"You hear all that, Lloyd?" he asked.

Lloyd coughed roughly. "Yeah."

"It help at all?"

"I don't…I don't know yet. Something familiar about what he told Connor but…" he coughed again, and this time it didn't stop.

"Lloyd?"

"Hang on," Julianne's voice echoed over the phone. "Here's water."

Charlie frowned deeply, closing his eyes as he listened to Lloyd trying to get what sounded like a horrific bit of coughing under control.

"Charlie?" Julianne said then.

"Yeah."

"We'll call you back." And then she hung up.

Charlie breathed out heavily, opening his eyes to look up at the stars. Damn it.

…

* * *

…

"I'm getting someone," Julianne said, stepping away from the bed.

"No, wait, wait…." Lloyd wiped at his face, feeling the heat rolling off him. He knew what was wrong, but he didn't care.

"No, you're shaking. I'm getting your doctor."

"No, I…" Lloyd grabbed her arm. "He told his son that he'd become him, right? The poem…the poem is sort of about that, but not really. But I know I've…It's right on the tip of my tongue."

"Let me go."

"Wait!" Lloyd snapped, gripping her arm tighter to keep her from leaving. "Help me. The boy said that…that…."

"That when this was over, he'd become his father," Julianne snarled. "Sounds sick to me."

Lloyd nodded. It was. It was a horrible thing to say. Unless…unless…

Julianne suddenly wrenched her hand free. "I'm getting you help."

"No, don't. Please. I'm okay," Lloyd insisted, looking up at her. "I just need a minute."

Her eyes narrowed, clearly not believing him.

Lloyd tried smiling, even if it felt more like a grimace. "Who's the doctor here?" he asked, the trembling in his voice probably giving him away.

"What's the old saying?" Julianne replied, arching an eyebrow very cutely. "They make the worst patients."

"Julianne, please! Don't quote clichés at me!" Lloyd begged. "I don't want to go back to sleep, and they'll put me back to sleep. I can get this."

He could see her hesitation, but she didn't move. He tried to smile again—her expression showed he didn't succeed, so he just pushed on.

"Tell me again about Hughes," he begged. "Not…not what was in Madison's report. About what he did in prison."

Julianne frowned. "I'd really rather…."

"I know. Humor me."

She swallowed, but he knew he had her. She bit her lip, and then walked back to her computer. After a few moments, she stopped typing and clicking and started reading.

"Okay," she said. "According to what Ray learned from his friend at Fishkill, Hughes hung out with the skinheads a lot and—"

"No, no, I don't care," Lloyd said, rolling a hand to indicate that she needed to move on. "I don't care who he hung out with. I want to know what he did while he was there. If this…if it's the poem he's quoting, did he get it from the library? Did he read the novel? What?"

"The novel," Julianne repeated, frowning slightly as she typed a few more things into her computer. "I didn't think about that. Hemingway, right?"

"Yeah. But I don't know what that has to do with anything either. Just…" He wiped his hand across his too dry forehead, feeling the burn like touching a frying pan. "I mean, does this guy seem like a _reader _to you? Doesn't fit with what we know about him…."

She typed a little more, and then shook her head. "There's nothing here about his hobbies. I don't know. Let me call Ray."

Lloyd just nodded, leaning back on the bed and trying to hide the shake in his hands.

…

* * *

…

They'd just reached the police station again in Redkill when Julianne called. Ray glanced at the phone as they headed inside, nodding to the FBI agent grabbing a smoke by the door and trying to ignore the burning in his thigh from walking on it too much. Shea jogged up the steps ahead of him to the main floor of the station, and then turned sharply towards the stairs on the side leading to the basement, clearly intent on getting back down to the Cold Room as soon as possible. From the looks the cops inside gave the guy, Ray couldn't blame him.

He put the phone to his ear. "You got something, Jules?"

"Not exactly. Can you call your friend at Fishkill again?"

Ray frowned, following Shea at his hobbled pace, glaring at the cops watching him.

"Why do you need me to call him?" he asked Julianne.

"Lloyd wants to know what Hughes did in his spare time in the prison."

Ray's eyebrows lifted, taking a breath when he reached the second set of stairs. Shea was already bounding down them. "Why?"

"He wants to know where Hughes got the poem from."

Ray frowned. "Everyone knows that poem, Julianne. It's not exactly obscure."

"Yeah, but…" He heard her sigh. "Lloyd thinks he may not be quoting the poem…at least, not directly."

"What are you saying?"

"He wants to know if it's the book."

"What book?"

"Hemingway. He wrote a book called 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'."

"He did?" The stairs down looked unusually steep to Ray as he stared down them. Leaning heavily on the banister, he began the painful process of following Shea down.

"He did. Can you find out if Hughes was a reader?"

Ray grunted slightly, stopping on the first landing, guessing he'd lose Julianne if he went down any further. He frowned as Shea disappeared down the next set of steps, not waiting for him. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

"Thanks."

"Talk to you soon, Jules," he said, hanging up.

"I need the key-card," Shea called up. "Gate's locked up and the dude down here won't let me in."

Ray sighed heavily and resumed painfully limping down the stairs. When he reached the gate to the sub-basement, Shea had his arms crossed and was drumming his fingers impatiently on his arms. Ray pulled out the key-card, showed it to the guard stationed behind the door, and then swiped it.

Shea grunted as he pushed through, sneering at the cop before heading towards their little storage room/office.

"So what did Julianne want?" Shea asked, pushing open the door to the Cold Room, which felt oddly ironic to Ray now.

"She wanted to know if Hughes read books in prison."

Shea actually laughed at that. "Serious?"

"Yeah."

"Hell, I can find that out. I'll just go ask him."

Ray sat down heavily on the chair, sighing heavily. Then what Shea just said registered. "Wait. What was that?"

"I'm a con, he's a con, we've got stuff in common. I probably won't be able to get him to talk about where he put the bombs, but talking about his past-times in the big house? That I can probably get out of him."

Ray's eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, but he saw no reason to say no. "Okay, I'll—"

The phone on the table rang shrilly, and Ray blinked. He looked at the ID on the base, and then smiled faintly. "Hold that thought," he told Shea. Picking up the phone, he said, "Ray Zancanelli."

"Zancanelli," Peters greeted. "Bill Peters."

"Figured as much. You got something for me?"

"Sort of," the man replied. "All I know is, Hughes talked all the time about how he was going to show his wife that he was more powerful than anyone, especially those who tried to keep him down."

"Like who, exactly?" Ray asked.

"I don't know. Maybe you guys. Marshals caught him after he escaped from Redkill's jail that first time, right?"

Ray grimaced. "Yup, it's what we do." He looked across at Shea. "Anything else?"

"Just that he thought the prison shrink was an idiot. Called him a fool. Said he was going to show him what a mistake he made."

Ray frowned. "Mistake?"

"Shrink labeled Hughes a pyro. Hughes took offense. Said he was completely in control of everything he did, and was going to prove that to the doc."

Ray drew in a deep breath. "And you helped this psycho?" he asked quietly.

"I didn't say that. I didn't help anybody. I'm just telling you what I overheard him say."

Ray rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay," he said. "Is that all you got?"

"Yeah," Peters said. "That's all I got."

"Well, then, I guess—"

"Wait," Shea whispered, waving a hand. "Ask him Lloyd's thing."

Ray stared at Shea a moment, sighed, and said to Peters, "One more thing."

"What?"

"Hughes a big reader?"

The earned a big laugh, so loud Ray had to pull the phone away from his ear.

"Reader?" Peters gasped between laughs. "Are you kidding? No way in hell. Man watched movies like crazy, especially the old ones, but he never read a book that I ever saw."

"Movies," Ray said, frowning. "You sure?"

…

* * *

…

"Movies?" Julianne repeated, looking over at Lloyd. His eyes were shut, though not because he was sleeping. She knew he was listening to every word Ray was telling them over the speaker. "Are you sure?"

"That's what he said," Ray answered. "He loved movies, especially the old ones."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks."

"Call us if—"

"I will," she promised. "Bye."

"Bye."

She hung up and walked closer to Lloyd. His head was tipped back, and, as she approached, his eyes opened to look up at the ceiling. His teeth were gritted tight.

"Lloyd?"

His jaw loosened. "There was a movie based on Hemingway's novel," he said, his voice trembling. "I saw it when I was younger. Had Gary Cooper in it. My mother loved Gary Cooper." He turned his gaze to meet Julianne's eyes. "I couldn't stand him. I hated that movie. I thought it was a terrible thing to do to such a great book."

She shrugged. "I never saw it."

"Don't bother. The ending was…." His eyes widened slightly, and he smiled briefly, looking back at the ceiling. "That's it. That's where I've heard what the Connor said before. Gary Cooper says it over and over to Ingrid Bergman—who, by the way, is supposed to be playing a Hispanic woman, which is a joke in itself—as he's about to die, to convince her to leave him there."

"Says what over and over?"

"That he is her now. That he's not going to die there, he's going to live on in her. He's her, she's him, he's her...He repeats it over and over like a lunatic just before he sacrifices himself to save them. It was such terrible overacting, I almost…." His smile fell, his eyes widening even more. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"Hughes…" He looked at Julianne again, and his body seemed to start to shaking again, worse than before. "Where is he?"

"At the station with Ray and Shea." She frowned. "You're shaking again."

"I never…I never stopped shaking. I was… It's rigor, probably. The station…isn't the courthouse there too?"

She nodded. "And the county seat. What's rigor? What's wrong with you?"

"It's, unh…" He tipped his head back, groaning. "Oh god…I knew I was too hot. That stupid surgeon…."

"Lloyd?"

He wasn't looking at her now, and to his left, one of the machines monitoring his condition started to beep loudly. Julianne backed up. As she did, another machine started to whine.

"No," she whispered, taking another step back. "No."

"Wait," Lloyd said suddenly, reaching for her before she could get too far away. "You have to tell them. Tell them about the movie. Tell them about Cooper's overacting. About sacrificing himself."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Tell them. You have to….They have to...They have to get outta there. Oh god, it…" He tipped his head back again, his whole body going rigid. He let go of Julianne's arm and she bolted for the door, throwing it open.

"Help me!" she shouted, waving at the woman at the nurses' station. "I need help. Something's wrong!"

"The doctor's already on his way," the woman called back, already on her feet and grabbing things off her desk. "Hang on, I'm coming."

Julianne propped the door open and looked back at Lloyd, covering her mouth with her hand and starting to shake herself.

…

* * *

…

"Still want to do this?" Ray asked, walking with Shea down the corridor to Hughes's cell.

"Why not?" Shea replied. "Not much else you and I can do right now. We're sort of waiting on the others to tell us what they've found. May as well try something else."

Reaching the first gate, he sneered slightly at the cop at the gate in front of them. The cop frowned, glancing at Ray, who indicated that they be allowed to walk through. Clearly unhappy, the cop opened the door—which set off a small alarm as it released and swung open. Ray stalled, and Shea naturally stopped with him, both ignoring the cop who was now looking at them impatiently over the beeping.

"You know what you're going to say to him?" Ray asked, looking down at the hall of cells. Most were open, obviously empty.

Shea shrugged. "I thought I'd piss him off and see what happens," he said. "Oh, no, wait, that's what you do."

Ray smirked. "Seriously, do you have a plan?"

"I'll figure something out. You forget—I ran Sing-Sing because I was pretty good at knowing how to get things for people. And that came from working the system. Means I've had some experience convincing people to do things for me."

"Conning people you mean."

Shea shrugged off the dig, walking the rest of the way through the gate, followed by the cop. Ray then indicated it be closed between them. Shea glanced at the locked door and then at Ray on the other side. Ray shrugged, smiling slightly.

"I'll be listening in from here," he said, pointing at the chair next to the gate. "Don't want to get in the way of all your 'experience.'"

Shea's eyes narrowed, and he held out his hand. "Give me the key-card."

"What, you don't think the good officer here will let you out?" Ray asked, trying for a joke and instantly regretting it when Shea's expression didn't change. Sighing, Ray handed him the key-card through the cell bars of the gate. The cop sighed heavily. Ignoring him, Ray plonked down on the chair in front of the gate, rubbed at his burning leg and watched Shea walk the rest of the way to Hughes's cell. After the cop opened the cell door, Shea waved him away, and the cop walked back to stand near the gate with Ray.

"This a good idea?" the cop asked Ray.

Ray shrugged. If nothing else, it should be an interesting conversation to listen to.

…

* * *

…

Back in the Cold Room, the phone on the desk started to ring showing Julianne's ID.

…

* * *

…

Charlie sighed as he followed the ambulance to Redkill hospital. Erica was still inside it—the boy had screamed when Erica tried to let him go, and, at the end of the day, it was just easier for her to stay with him until they got back to Redkill.

When the phone rang, he hit the car's speaker.

"Julianne? You got something?"

"Yeah," she said, her voice shaking slightly. Charlie frowned.

"Something wrong?"

"Yeah." He could hear her swallow. "Lloyd…Lloyd thinks Hughes is referring to the movie 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', not the poem or the book. What Connor said to Erica about turning into his father sounded like something from the movie."

Charlie frowned. "The movie?" He shook his head. He'd never seen it. "What happened in the movie?"

"Apparently, the lead sacrificed himself to save the people he was with. According to IMDb, he dies at the end fighting off the fascists in Spain, but before he does, he tells the woman he loves that he's going to live on in her. He says it several times. Over and over."

Charlie's frown deepened. "What does that mean?"

"Lloyd thinks…he thinks it means that Hughes has rigged the Redkill police station to blow, and probably the courthouse too, with himself inside. He planned to commit suicide in a big way. I'm sure his wife has a line of sight to the station, just like Connor could see that school. Charlie..." Her voice was shaking painfully hard now. "Ray and Shea are sitting right on top of the bombs and they have no idea. I can't reach Ray on the landline at all. No one is picking up in the station upstairs either."

Charlie swore. "Okay. Keep trying them. Can you call Erica as well? She's in the ambulance. Tell her to join you at the hospital—I'll head to the police station as soon as I call Sergeant Vega and her team."

"Will do." Her voice was still shaking badly, so Charlie smiled.

"It's going to be okay, Julianne. There's time. They'll be fine."

"I know. Thanks, Charlie."

"No, thank you. And thank Lloyd. If he's right, he just saved our asses again."

…

* * *

…

Julianne nodded. "I will," she replied, staring at the messy, empty bed in front of her. Blood stained the sheets, the wires hung loose, and all the monitors were quiet. "I will," she repeated as she hung up.

…

* * *

TBC…


	9. Chapter 9

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE: FIRE**

With Connor still latched to her like a lamprey, Erica followed the paramedics and a police officer into the ER, barely listening as the paramedics started rattling off information to the doctor and nurses who came to greet them. Erica simply watched as the doctor, a young looking Asian woman, ran a light touch down the rope burns on Connor's arms and then brushed back his hair so she could see his face. When the paramedics finished talking, the doctor's sharp eyes shifted to look up at Erica.

"You a relative?"

"I found him," Erica replied, not sure what else to say.

"He in protective custody?"

"Yes, he is," answered the uniformed officer.

"Relatives coming?"

"We're still searching."

The doctor pursed her lips, and looked up at Erica again.

"Well, I'm not going to be able to examine him like this. Follow me—we'll take him up to the fifth floor." She looked at the nurse hovering nearby. "And get me everything you can on him. If he's been a patient here before, I want his pediatrician up there as soon as possible."

"Yes, Dr. Nguyen," the nurse said, already hurrying off. The doctor jerked her head at Erica and the officer with her and strode away at a fast clip. Erica hitched Connor up higher in her aching arms and followed the doctor in the direction of the elevators.

The ride up was short but almost oppressively silent, Erica wincing as Connor hugged her neck so tightly it had begun to ache in time with her arms. When the doors finally opened with a soft "ding", Erica couldn't hide the relief on her face. She saw the officer smile gently at her, clearly sympathetic, and Erica flashed a crooked smile in return.

Dr. Nguyen turned left briskly upon exiting, not even looking to see if they were following. Erica, though, found herself hesitating when she spotted the word "psychiatry" on the sign opposite the elevator, grimacing slightly. It made sense, of course, but….Shaking her head, knowing there was nothing else to be done, she hitched Connor up a little higher and followed the ER doctor's lead. The officer stayed by her side the whole time, not saying a word, just offering silent support, for which Erica was grateful.

A few feet from the doors leading into the psychiatric wing, the sound of someone running caught her attention, and she turned to see a young blonde woman in a white coat legging it towards them from down the corridor, her eyes bright, followed closely by the nurse from down in the ER.

"Connor?" the new doctor called as she reached them. "Connor?" she tried again. "Do you remember me? I'm Dr. Reeves. I saw you a few weeks ago. Remember?"

The boy looked up, and his eyes widened. Suddenly he was twisting out of Erica's arms and throwing himself at the pediatrician. She gasped as she caught him, his arms now around her neck as he started to bawl, all the tears he'd obviously been holding back exploding out of him at the first sight of someone he knew. Dr. Reeves closed her eyes and held him close, before looking up at Erica.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at her.

Erica could only nod in return, trying to pretend that it didn't hurt to let him go. Her arms, aching before from the weight, were all but screaming in pain now, and her chest burned with a sense of loss she didn't know she could feel for anyone's child other than her own.

Dr. Reeves' smile faded, and she looked at Dr. Nguyen who was now standing next to Erica. "Thanks, Jane. You can head back down." She looked at the other people around them, which now included several people from psychiatry. "Could someone show me to an exam room?"

Erica backed up as Dr. Reeves walked past, the pediatrician still holding a sobbing Connor as the group pushed through the doors into the psychiatric wing. The police officer hesitated at the doors, watching Erica.

"You coming?" she asked.

Erica shook her head. The officer nodded, understanding on her face, and pushed through the doors after the others.

Like a dam breaking, Erica's world blurred suddenly, her legs feeling like jelly.

"Whoa," Dr. Nguyen said, taking her arm. "Okay, okay, this way."

She was led to a set of seats against the wall and sat down.

"Sit here a minute. I'll be right back."

Erica could only nod, tipping her spinning head back against the wall and closing her eyes. She took in a couple of deep breaths, wanting to get her equilibrium back.

And then something odd happened. Below all the usual hospital smells of cleaning solution and antiseptic, she realized that she could smell fresh paint. The odd part was that, rather than ignoring it, her mind seemed to deliberately accentuate it. It reminded her of something.

At almost the same time, she felt something cool pressed into her hand and she opened her eyes. Dr. Nguyen smiled back.

"Water," she told Erica. "You're probably a little dehydrated, Detective."

Erica blinked, not about to correct that assumption. She lifted her hand and the cup that had been pressed into it, taking a long sip, the water tasting like heaven as it slid down her throat. She became so focused on it, she forgot what she'd been about to ask.

"Thank you," she said, smiling in return as she handed the now empty cup back.

"I'm Jane," the doctor said, sitting down next to her. "And you?"

"Erica Reed."

"Well, Erica, from the looks of it, you went above and beyond today. I hope you caught the monster that mistreated that little boy."

Erica just smiled more, nodding as she tipped her head back again, her attention drawn to the sign on the wall opposite. "We did, though we're still…." She stopped suddenly as one of the names of the doctors listed on the wall under the Psychiatry sign stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Detective? Is something wrong?"

"Dr. Clement Madison works here?" Erica asked, standing up, all sense of exhaustion disappearing instantly. Dr. Nguyen frowned, but stood up with her.

"You know Dr. Madison?" she asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Erica replied. She turned to look at the doctor. "Does he work here?"

"He has an office here, yes. It's just down the hall. What's this about?"

"Who does he treat?"

The doctor was frowning deeply now, and she crossed her arms. "Certain specialty patients. Why—?"

"Prisoners?"

Dr. Nguyen frowned, but gave a nod. "Yes. That's his primary role here. Now what is this about?"

Erica gritted her teeth briefly. "Take me to his office and I'll tell you."

…

* * *

…

"You don't look much like a con to me," Dominick Hughes said, leaning back on his cot, his scraggly blondish hair sticking to his head. "No cuffs. No cop hovering. No nothing." He lifted an eyebrow. "Kinda makes you sound like a liar."

**"**You're not understanding this at all, are you?" Shea said, propping his feet up on the cot, the ancient metal chair squeaking. "I'm beginning to think you're a lot dumber than Peters gave you credit for."

Hughes's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Bill Peters. "I don't understand how a con can walk around a place like this as if he owns it. Unless, he's not a con."

"Same way I can get a case of beer sent to the boys on C-Block, or quadruple an inmate's time out in the yard in the spring, or…." He shrugged, smirking slightly. "Smuggle a girlfriend into a guy in solitary for an unsanctioned conjugal." He put his hands behind his head. "Same way I can help you. I make deals."

"Who says I want one?"

"Please," Shea said. "Considering how spectacularly you fucked up this whole bombing thing, you're going to need one. You're just damned lucky Peters, as backwards and racist as that motherfucker is, had the intelligence to beg for my help. It's not like he could go to White Sun again, now, could he? So he came to the one person he knew White Sun wouldn't already control." He drew a line slowly down his face. "If you get my drift."

Hughes's expression hardened, hesitating a little too long before asking, "What are you talking about?"

"Wow, really? This is that hard for you to get?" Shea sighed. "Right now, you're fucked. I know it, Peters knows it, everyone in this building knows it. The minute you tried to bomb a school, you became Guantanamo fodder. They're going to send you there to be water-boarded for the rest of your life. And because of that, you've fucked Peters over as well. They know you'll be screaming White Sun's name before you even touch down in Cuba, and he'll be dead within the week. Unless…" Shea arched an eyebrow. "You work something out with me."

Hughes blinked once, slowly. "What school?"

Shea rolled his eyes slightly. "Christ, you really are dense." He put his feet down and leaned forward on his knees, fixing his eyes on Hughes. "Fine. Let me lay it out for you, so there are no more misunderstandings. They found all nine bombs, Dom. The one in Perrytown, the ones here….You shouldn't have made your trail so easy to follow, or made your kid and ex-wife so easy to find." Shea pursed his lips. "Seriously, that big fancy brick house in Perrytown? Sort of obvious, wasn't it? If you'd used one of the uglier metal bungalows, it might've made it harder to find him."

Hughes blinked slowly again, his face tightening. "You're lying."

"You told your son that he was going to be you, now. Does that sound like I'm lying?"

Hughes's shoulders dropped, turning his face away as he whispered, "how could you have possibly…?"

"Look, I'd bring the boy here to prove it to you, but you know they're never going to allow it. He's out of your control now, just like your ex. Probably should have been a little less obvious with her as well, I mean, why that place? It just screamed 'kidnapped woman here.'"

Hughes's expression was hard. Finally, he turned his head. "It had the best view."

"I suppose. But don't you think the building next to it would've been better? Less conspicuous."

Hughes frowned, looking back at Shea. "The bank? Why would…." He stopped instantly, his eyes widening. Then he stood up, his lips curling into a sneer.

"Well done," he said quietly. "But that's all you're getting out of me. Get out."

Shea pursed his lips and stood up as well. "I can make life easier for you, Hughes. Trust me. If you just—"

The building suddenly came alive with bells, the fire alarm blaring into every corner. Shea turned to look at the door, just as the cop appeared in the opening, calling a "10-4" into the radio on his shoulder before looking at them both.

"Time's up!" he snapped. "We're getting out of here."

"Why?" Shea asked.

"Someone's called in a bomb threat," the cop answered, stepping into the cell. "We have to evacuate the building."

Shea took a step closer to the door, "But—"

Hughes's shout was blood-curdling as he slammed into Shea, knocking him to the floor before driving himself into the surprised cop. Shea scrambled, trying to get his bearings despite smacking his head, but before he could even get up to his knees, Hughes was on top of him again, slamming something hard across his face.

His last view was of Hughes firing the cop's gun brightly and loudly into the corridor, before the world faded to black.

…

* * *

…

Charlie arrived at the police station just as the fire alarm started blaring in the massive building, the lights automatically turning on brightly in every window. Pulling into a space off to the side, he frowned as people started streaming out.

He snagged the arm of one of the officers jogging past.

"You see the U.S. Marshals come out? Zancanelli and the others?"

The officer just shook his head. "No, sir, sorry. They must be still in the basement." When Charlie frowned and started to jog towards the door, the cop yelled, "Sir! You can't go inside! There's been a bomb threat called in!"

"No shit," Charlie called back. "I'm the one who called it in."

He was on the steps when he felt himself grabbed from behind, and pulled back. When he turned, it was to see a very large looking fireman looking down on him, still gripping his arm. As he was trying to figure out if he could take him, Sergeant Vega appeared from behind the fireman, buckling on a vest.

"Can't let you go in, Marshal," she said, her expression apologetic. "You're too late."

…

* * *

…

"Madison was kidnapped?" Dr. Nguyen repeated, sounding a little dumbstruck. "Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah, we're sure," Erica replied, following the other woman around a corner through the psychiatric wing. "Tell me, if he has an office across the street, why does he have an office here?"

"Many of our psychiatrists are in private practice, but the hospital contracts them for specialty patients, like prisoners. Here we are." She stopped in front of a closed office door, several names listed on the nameplate, including Madison's. The smell of fresh paint was much stronger here.

"Was it painted recently?" Erica asked as she tried the door. It rattled—locked.

Dr. Nguyen shrugged. "I don't know, but if it was, he's lucky. I've been trying to get the admin staff to paint the office I share downstairs for years." She frowned as Erica knelt down to look more closely at the lock. "Look, I don't know if you're allowed in there. There are private medical records inside." Her frown deepened as Erica stood up again and took a step back. "Look, you're going to need permission to—" She squeaked as Erica suddenly slammed her foot against the door next to the lock. "You can't!" she cried as Erica kicked at it again. "Get someone!" she shouted then, probably to someone down the hall, but Erica didn't care, aiming one more kick right at where she figured the sweet spot was. "You have to stop," Dr. Nguyen begged.

"Too late," Erica replied as the door swung open, the frame and lock completely done in.

Walking inside, the smell of fresh paint was almost overwhelming, but only because two cans were open and sitting off to one side on a tarp. Ignoring those, Erica moved over to the desk, while Dr. Nguyen hovered close behind, the doctor looking briefly in confusion at the paint cans before returning her attention to Erica.

"I must insist that you stop this immediately, Detective," she begged. "Please. This is illegal."

Nothing on the desk looked damaged, so Erica turned and looked up at the bookshelves behind. Nothing obvious there either.

"Did Madison treat his prisoners up here?"

Nguyen frowned. "No. Never. Prisoners are always isolated down in the basement. He goes to them. What are you looking for?"

Erica paused, taking that in, her mind racing. Shaking her head, she fumbled for her cell phone and dialed Julianne's number. Oddly, it took a few rings, but the other woman finally picked up.

"Erica," Julianne greeted, her voice sounding strangely subdued, almost sluggish. "What can I do for you?"

"I need you to find out if Hughes was ever hospitalized here, and in what room. It'll be down in the basement where you are."

"Okay, give me a moment."

Erica returned to looking around the room, looking behind papers piled on top of cabinets and underneath furniture.

"He was admitted not long after he was first arrested ten years ago," Julianne said, her voice still subdued. "Treated down here in just a couple rooms down from this one by…huh, Dr. Madison."

"I need you to go to the room he was in."

"Why?" Julianne asked, sounding a little more alive now.

Erica had turned to look at the opposite side of the room, the side with the paint cans. It was then she spotted the thing that was out of place. "Hang on," she told Julianne. Lowering the phone, she pointed to the filing cabinet off to the side, at the bottom drawer. There were files stacked up next to it.

"Dr. Nguyen," she asked, "does the lock on that filing cabinet look jimmied to you?"

Nguyen breathed out heavily. "I don't understand why…"

"What's going on in here!" a strident voice demanded, and Erica glanced over her shoulder at the police officer that had arrived here with her. Behind her, a nervous nurse hovered, trying to see over the officer's shoulder.

Erica frowned at the cop. "This is Dr. Madison's office here at the hospital," she said quickly. "You know about Madison going missing, yes? And what we found in Dominick Hughes' truck?"

The police officer's entire demeanor changed as she understood what she was saying. Erica gave a nod, and then pointed to the filing cabinet.

"That lock's been jimmied."

The officer looked at it, then at Erica, her eyes wide now. Swallowing, Erica moved slowly over to the cabinet and knelt down.

"Uh, doc," the police officer said then, "you best come outside, get behind me."

Nguyen hesitated, but did as ordered, moving past the officer to stand in the hallway with the nurse. As soon as she was gone, Erica reached down and took hold of the drawer handle. These things were not meant to be sensitive to gentle movement or cell phone frequencies, but….

Very slowly, she opened the drawer and looked inside. The bomb stared right back at her, armed red light lit.

She put the phone next to her ear.

"Julianne," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Hughes bombed the hospital."

…

* * *

…

Shea blinked awake slowly, briefly confused about what the hell was going on. Then, without warning, something hot and metal was pressed against the side of his head.

"Stand up," Hughes ordered. "Nice and slow."

It wasn't like Shea had much of a choice, even if the world was tilting along both the vertical and the horizontal as he slowly got to his feet.

"I got a hostage!" Hughes shouted out the door, yelling to be heard over the still blaring fire alarm bell. "You put your guns down and raise your hands, or I blow this guy's head off!"

Shea grimaced, feeling like a fool as he was pushed out the door of the cell and into the hallway, the gun never leaving his temple. He stepped gingerly over the unconscious cop on the ground, frowning a little at how easily Hughes had managed to get the man's gun off him.

Ray, Officer Samuels and one other cop stood on the other side of the closed cell gate, their hands all visibly empty and away from their sides. Their guns were on the cement floor.

"What do you want, Hughes?" Ray asked.

"First," Hughes said, "I want these damn alarms shut off. Second," he pressed the gun deeper into Shea's skull, "I want to know where my son is."

Ray frowned, and looked at Shea briefly before returning his gaze to Hughes.

"Your son is safe. That's all you need to know."

Hughes snorted a laugh. "Not what I asked. Where is he?"

Ray hesitated a moment, before shrugging. "He's on his way to the hospital, to be treated for burns and dehydration and who knows what other abuse you inflicted on him, you son of a bitch. Now let him go."

"Not happening. And I want my son brought here, to the parking lot. Now. I want him to see what's about to happen."

"See what, Hughes? See what a total loser you are?"

"I want him to see me bring this place down! And you, and every other cop with it."

Ray huffed a laugh."You really think that's going to happen?"

"I do if you don't want me to kill your friend here."

"He ain't my friend."

"He's not lying," Shea said. "I hate that guy."

"And I don't care. You're still both cops, and cops protect cops."

Shea almost laughed out loud, feeling the irony like a knife. "I already told you, I'm not a cop, I'm—"

"Shut up!" Hughes yelled, the arm he'd thrown around Shea's chest tightening. "I'm not listening to you!"

"Then listen to me, Hughes," Ray said. "He's telling the truth. He's not a cop. You want a cop, you take me. Let him go."

Shea could feel Hughes's smirk, even if he couldn't see it. "You really think I'm going to buy that?"

"I think you want to punish cops, not cons. I'm offering an even trade, his life for mine. Whaddya say?"

Shea just breathed, staring hard at Ray as they both waited for Hughes's answer. Ray simply met his gaze.

"I say," Hughes said slowly, "that I think you're full of shit. You're all full of shit! And I'm sick of being lied to!" All of a sudden, the gun was gone from Shea's head, and he could see it clearly, pointed over his shoulder at Ray, firing loudly in the enclosed space at the unarmed men on the other side of the gate. He acted without thinking, grabbing at Hughes's extended arm and pushing out at the same time as he stomped on Hughes's foot. The man yelped, loosening his arm around Shea's chest, giving him enough room to elbow Hughes hard in the gut and then grab at the gun with both hands, twisting and wrenching it free of Hughes's grasp.

Hughes fought back by shoving Shea to the ground, and when Shea turned over, gun pointed at where Hughes had been a moment before, it was to see the fugitive pelting down the hallway away from him towards the back of the building. Shea fired a couple of shots, but both missed as Hughes ducked and disappeared around the corner.

"Fuck!" he snapped, rocking up onto his knees, and still pointing the gun down the corridor, just in case.

"Hell!" Ray swore. Shea twisted to look back at them, and hissed. Samuels was on the ground, holding a bleeding shoulder. The third cop appeared to have disappeared, probably to get help. Ray looked fine, but he was red-faced, rattling the cell-like bars of the gate and glaring at the lock. Or what was left of it.

"Bastard shot up the lock," Ray said. "The door's stuck." He looked at Shea. "Think you can stop Hughes on your own? He's gotta be going for the bombs."

"Bombs?" Shea repeated, getting to his feet, his head spinning slightly. "You saying the bomb threat…?"

"Yeah. Lloyd figured it out. Crazy motherfucker planned to blow up himself up down here. But if you're fast enough…" He frowned then. "No, wait, what am I saying? Look, if you don't find him fast, you get the hell out of here." Ray looked down at Officer Samuels, who was growing paler by the moment. "There's another way out, yeah?"

Samuels gasped slightly, but nodded. "Yeah. Round the corner. First corridor on the left. Exit's at the end. There's signs."

"Any cell doors between there and here?"

Samuels shook his head. "They'll be unlocked. Automatic when the fire alarm goes off."

Ray nodded and looked back at Shea. "You don't see him before he gets to wherever he planted his bombs, you get out. Find Charlie. Okay?"

Shea frowned, but nodded. He looked down at the gun in his hand, and then jogged over to hand it through the gate's bars. Ray shook his head emphatically.

"No, keep the gun. You might need it."

"No way," Shea said, shoving it through. "Not after what happened to Lloyd."

"That was a mistake. It won't happen again."

"Don't promise something you can't, Zancanelli."

"Yeah, but think a minute. What if Hughes stashed a gun down here somewhere? He's gonna—"

The alarm squealed painfully high as the power went off suddenly, pitching them all into complete darkness and, just as quickly, complete silence. Shea and Ray both looked up at the dead lights overhead, and then towards the emergency lights—neither came on. The only light came from Samuels as he flipped on the flashlight attached to his uniform.

Something metal groaned from the direction of the stairs, and another groan came from somewhere behind Shea.

"Shit, shit, shit, the doors!" Samuels shouted, pointing his flashlight at the stairs. "Catch the doors!"

"What?" Ray said. Slowly but certainly, the barred doorway on the stairs had started to close, the metal groaning as the mechanism released. Which meant the one at the end of the corridor of cells behind Shea was also closing—his only way out!

"They lock when the power goes down, to prevent escapes!" Samuels said. "You have to—"

Shea was no longer listening, already running away from them down the corridor, reaching down to grab the nightstick of the unconscious cop on the ground, and just legging it the rest of the way, trying to get to the gate before it cut him off from a way out. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to run this fast, legs cramping, lungs aflame….A few feet away, he jumped and slid the rest of the way, slamming his leg into the closing door, sending shockwaves of pain up and down his shins and thighs. He sat up and jammed the nightstick under the door, wedging it as tight as he could.

The door groaned louder, the mechanism fighting the obstruction. Shea swore, praying for the stick to hold…and, eventually, the groaning stopped; the door remained propped open, just wide enough for a body to slide through. Blowing the air out of his cheeks, head pounding hard enough it felt like it was trying to break his nose from the inside out, Shea looked back over his shoulder.

Ray had had slightly less luck—he'd used his body to keep the door open, and as the cop shone a light on him, Shea could see the bloodstained jeans. The wound from last night must have reopened. Ray was panting, holding the door in place with sheer brute force.

"I need something to hold it open!" Ray called. It was sort of useless, since Shea was trapped on the wrong side of the gate, and Samuels didn't look like he could move, even to toss his own nightstick over. They were all essentially stuck until someone came down to rescue them. Shea sighed. Grunting slightly, he regained his feet, stumbled into a wall, and managed a sort of limping jog back to the barred doorway separating him from Ray and Samuels.

"Guess we're back to Plan A," he said as he leaned against the cool metal, raising his voice a little so Ray could hear. "Stop Hughes or get blown up."

"Yeah," Ray said, though it came out like a groan.

Shea smirked slightly, and then turned to walk to the unconscious cop on his side of the gate. Blinking back the pain, he knelt down and pulled the flashlight and radio off of his jacket. The guy was still breathing. Somebody else to save, and a cop no less.

"Have I mentioned how much this caper sucks, Ray?"

"You've might've."

Shea stood and focused on Samuels, who was so white, he almost glowed. "How many more cell doors between me and the exit?"

The cop grimaced. "Just one."

"But it'll be locked now."

Samuals nodded. "Yeah." He frowned. "I'm really sorry. But…maybe that means Hughes's trapped too…unless he's the one that caused the blackout. Maybe he didn't have time to get to any of his bombs?"

"We haven't blown up yet," Shea said, snorting slightly. He checked the radio, flipping it on briefly—he instantly got chatter, someone talking about evacuating the building. He grimaced and switched to a different channel. This one was quiet.

"I'm using Channel 2," he told them. "Do me a favor and tell no one else to use it." Samuels just gave a nod, a shaking hand fumbling for the radio on his vest. Shea stuffed the radio in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing. He then tucked the gun behind his back and held the flashlight up to point down the corridor that Hughes had run down.

Really nothing else for it now. Feeling a little like he was walking to his death, he started moving down the corridor.

"Shea, wait," Ray called, his voice strained.

He stopped and turned, looking over his shoulder. "What?"

"I'll find you another way out."

Shea smirked. "You better."

"And…" Ray frowned. Finally, he said, "Be careful."

Shea snorted. "You owe me huge for this, Zancanelli. And I'll be collecting, believe you me."

"I know," Ray called as Shea started jogging down the hall away from them both. "And I'll be waiting. Right here."

…

* * *

TBC…


	10. Chapter 10

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN: DUMB MOVES**

Shea breathed out slowly as he peeked around the corner, only to find himself looking down yet another empty, dark corridor of featureless, identical metal doors marked by numbers like "SB-503." Fuck, he was stalking a madman through the bureaucratic back halls of hell.

Funny. He often pictured hell as something he would feel comfortable in, could control. Washington Heights had been a hellhole when he was a kid, but it was a hellhole he understood, a place he knew like the back of his hand. Sing Sing was a hellhole, but he quickly owned it, ran it like he'd run Washington Heights. This place was foreign, quiet and dead, just like those cold cases in the room they'd been in. This was the place where things were lost and forgotten.

He shuddered at the thought of being just a name on a box, wondering if that was what was going to happen to him. Who would miss him?

Vanessa would. Maybe some of his old crew. And, honestly, he thought Lloyd might.

He suddenly imagined Lloyd down here, smiling wryly as he walked with Shea, eyes bright with curiosity even as he'd be shaking like a leaf with terror. Place like this was exactly the sort of thing Lloyd loved and hated, all at the same time.

At least Lloyd was safe at the hospital. Erica too. And they were together. The only one risking his life this time, was him.

How the hell did that happen? Erica was the one who ran towards danger like an idiot. Lloyd often stumbled into it, also like an idiot. But Shea? He was supposed to be the smart one, the one who did only as much as he needed to, only as much as he wanted, and he did not get into trouble. He definitely did not walk down creepy dark corridors looking for a man who was probably just waiting for someone to look at him wrong so he could blow them all up.

This job was making him dumb. That was the only explanation. He was losing it. If this was how he was going to die, maybe he deserved it, for losing his edge so much.

He turned the corner and sidled up to the first door on this new corridor, gently checking the handle. Locked. Every door down here had so far been locked. And there were a lot of doors. The only one that had been open so far had been the broom closet—though the only thing in there had been a really sad looking, smelly mop. When it shifted slightly upon his opening the door, he'd nearly jumped out of his skin.

It was just too fucking creepy down here.

And being alone sucked.

He touched the radio, fingering the talk button. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed himself up against the closed door and hit the button.

"Ray?"

"You okay?" The response was instant, and Shea smiled.

"Yeah, just…checking. I've not seen Hughes yet."

Ray didn't reply for a moment, then, "You're doing good, Shea. Keep your eyes open."

Shea nodded. "Yeah."

"Just so you know, the building's been evac'd. Bomb squad is the only one on the premises. Well, them, and us. And they've made some progress."

Shea lifted his eyebrows. Funny to think stuff was going on somewhere else when it was so dead down here. "What's going on?"

"They found a bomb in the courtroom already. Dogs found it pretty fast. They're working on disarming it now."

Shea straightened instantly. "What? But that'll set the other ones off. Are they trying to kill us?"

"They say that they know what they're working with now. They're going to sever the wireless connection first, then disarm the bomb."

Shea closed his eyes, holding the radio to his chest.

"They can do this, Shea," Ray said then, his voice muffled by Shea's shirt.

Shea opened his eyes, and hit the button. "Sure."

"Just keep trying to find Hughes."

Shea opened his eyes again. Finally, he sighed and lifted the radio again. "Yeah," he whispered. "Good advice. Thanks, Ray."

Ray snorted a laugh, before adding, "And don't screw it up."

Shea shook his head. He tucked the radio behind his back and, lifting the gun and the flashlight, he continued down the hallway, checking each door as he went.

…

* * *

…

Julianne stood very still, standing outside the door of the room two doors down from where she'd been sitting for the last twelve hours. It was nearly identical to Lloyd's—same colors, same bed, same everything. Just unused.

Except for the bomb she'd found stuck to the underside of the bed.

"Ms. Simms?"

She looked down the hall, feeling very hazy as a team of four people in a ton of body armor came stomping towards her.

"Ms. Simms?" one of them said. It was a man, though only the voice told her that, considering his face was hidden behind a mask that looked like something out of science fiction. "Are you Julianne Simms?" he tried again.

She nodded.

"You found another bomb?"

She pointed into the room. "Attached to the underside of the bed."

"Okay," he said. "We'll take it from here. You need to get your things and get out. Evac station is in front—go to area 4. That's where you'll find Ms. Reed."

She just nodded again. She'd already packed everything, her carrying case and litigation bag by her feet, papers sticking out the top. Feeling like she was made of very brittle paper, she bent down to pick everything up, the heavy cases dragging on her like hundred pound weights. With extreme care, she hung them across her shoulders. When she was standing again, bags hanging off her like Marley's chains, she just stopped, staring into the room as the four black figures swarmed the bed. They didn't see her anymore. No one ever did.

Her phone buzzed in her thin vest pocket. She didn't want to answer it. It stopped after a moment.

When it buzzed again, Julianne pulled it out, but she didn't look at it. She wanted to drop it. She wanted to drop everything.

Everything felt washed out. Dead. Sweat dripped down her temples, mixing with the dried tears on her face, leaving behind a crusty, salty feel. She'd stopped trembling, but only because her muscles were too tired to keep it up.

Her heart was beating fast, though. She could feel it, beating out of control, making her too hot, too light.

Out of order.

The phone buzzed again. After looking at the name, she closed her eyes and lifted it to her ear.

"Erica."

"Where the hell are you? Why aren't you and Lloyd out here? Why weren't you answering?" Erica's voice was strident, angry…scared.

Julianne opened her eyes. The bomb squad still hadn't noticed her still standing outside the room, so intent on their work. But why would they look? What kind of crazy person doesn't run when there's a bomb threat?

Was she crazy?

Erica was still talking in the background. Julianne blinked and focused on her words.

"Did you hear what I just said? Julianne? Julianne, so help me, if you don't say something right now, I'm going to send every soldier in this place down there to—"

"I'm here."

"Christ, don't do that! I thought I lost you. I said I'll meet you and Lloyd wherever they take him. I'm in the parking lot outside. Just tell me where—"

"Lloyd's gone."

That earned a moment's silence. Then, very quietly, "Define 'gone'."

Julianne started to shake, the bags getting heavier and heavier, cleaving into her shoulders. "They took him. His…his temperature spiked, and he….They took him away."

Erica didn't say anything for a long moment. Eventually, she asked quietly, "What happened?"

"I don't know, really. This happened about an hour ago. Maybe two. I'm not really sure anymore. I'm…I really…I have this thing about hospitals. I can't…I can't….He was there, and then he wasn't. My dad…same thing. I lost him."

Erica hissed, and Julianne could almost picture her standing up straighter, taking stock, and….

"Okay," Erica said, her voice even. "Here's what we're going to do. The directory says the ICU is on the second floor. That's got to be where he is. Meet me there in ten minutes."

Julianne swallowed. "But what about…the evacuation? There's still two bombs unaccounted for. They won't let you back in."

"They won't be able to stop me. I'll meet you there. Now move." And then she hung up.

Julianne pulled the phone from her ear, blinked a little.

A text message showed up on the face a second later, in all caps.

**I SAID MOVE**

So she did.

…

* * *

…

Shea stared at the two barred doorways in front of him. The one to his left led down the corridor to the exit. The other led deeper into the building.

And both were propped open with broomsticks.

It meant he could leave. Run away and survive, and no one would blame him. Hell, Ray and Charlie both would tell him to run. His legs shifted, muscles twitching in anticipation…

But it also meant that, unlike what Samuels had said, Hughes _had_ known the doors would lock when the power went down. He'd probably grabbed the brooms from the closet with the mop. It also meant he'd probably been the one to shut the power off.

And he obviously hadn't left yet, or both doors would be shut. He was still inside the complex, setting a bomb to go boom, probably very shortly.

But not immediately.

More importantly, Hughes had left the door to the exit propped. That meant only one thing—Hughes was going to try to escape. To survive. And that, all by itself, was a game changer.

Shea knew how to work with someone who wanted to survive. He'd done it every day at Sing Sing.

And capturing Hughes and saving the day would do more than just help him survive, it might mean he'd earn more time off his sentence. And he'd do it his way.

Plus, he _really_ wanted to get this guy, for all the shit he'd put them through.

Looking away from the exit, he lifted the radio to his lips.

"Ray."

"Hey."

"Hughes propped open the door leading deeper into the complex. Where does that corridor go?"

"Hang on…." There was a pause, then, "Apparently it leads to under the courtroom, and, further, to the main hearing rooms of the city and county governments, but there are more barred doors. There's still no way out." He was frustrated, Shea could tell. "But, look, hear that?" A loud hissing sound became audible. "I got someone to bring me an acetylene torch. I'm going to have this door open in fifteen minutes. You should get back here."

"Not necessary."

"What? Why?"

"Because Hughes also propped open the door that leads to the exit."

"What? That's great! Get out of there. I'll let Charlie—"

"Wait," Shea said, his voice strangely calm. "They disarm the bomb in the courtroom yet?"

"No, not yet. They also found another under the legislative hearing rooms. That one was probably to make Peters happy."

Shea nodded. "That still leaves four bombs missing."

"Two, actually."

Shea frowned. "Two? But I thought—"

"They found two more at the hospital—Erica figured it out, actually. One of them was just feet from where Lloyd and Julianne were in the basement."

Shea huffed in surprise. "Are they okay?"

Ray hesitated a little too long.

Shea frowned. "What's going on, Ray?"

"Lloyd had a setback. He's in the hospital's ICU. Erica and Julianne won't leave him. Charlie's furious. Since we don't know where the other two bombs are, it's a safe bet at least one of them's still in that hospital somewhere."

Shea frowned, and took one more look at the door to the way out.

The smart thing would be to leave. Escape. Survive.

"I'm going after Hughes," he told Ray.

"No. Absolutely not. You get your ass out of—"

Shea shut the radio off, and pushed through the door leading deeper into the complex.

…

* * *

…

Julianne fiddled with her scarf as she stood outside the room, watching through the window as Dr. Quereshi moved around Lloyd's bed. He had no interns with him now, not even a nurse, it was just him, checking monitors, scribbling the chart at the end of the bed, and showing almost no emotion on his face.

Finally, a few minutes after too long, he walked to the glass door and opened it, stepping outside to face the two women standing there.

"You're both very stubborn," he said, without preamble. "I don't know how you got back in here, but—"

"Just tell us how he is," Julianne said, having no patience for that now. "Will he be alright?"

"He's stable, and he's awake again. We should be able to move him out of here soon. He and the other critical patients."

Erica breathed out heavily. "But does that mean he'll be alright?"

"I'm not going to make any promises," the doctor said, grimacing slightly. "Right now, I'd say yes, but moving him in this condition is not going to do him, or anyone else on this ward, any favors." He frowned as he looked up and down the hall at the skeleton staff that was trying to keep the handful of people still in the ICU alive. "In any event," he said then, looking back at them, "there's not much more anyone can do right now for these people other than pray. None of them should be moved, but…." He simply shook his head in resignation.

"Can we see him?" Julianne asked.

Quereshi inclined his head. "Just one of you, though. And once you do, I really suggest you listen to the men over there who have been trying to get you both to leave." He nodded at the Sergeant Vega's soldiers standing by the doors, looking at them all as if they were the dumbest people in the world for still being here.

Erica snorted, and crossed her arms. "We're not—"

Julianne took her arm. "You have a daughter.

Erica frowned. "Yes, but someone needs to—"

"I'll be here. They won't kick me out. Though…if something should happen, will you ask Charlie to be gentle with my mother? She's very fragile."

Erica's frown deepened. "It won't come to that. And I'm not leaving you. We're all getting out of here."

"Erica, please."

"No, I know you're trying to save me, but—"

"Stop. Listen to me. You need to go find Charlie. He needs your help more than Lloyd or I do right now. We're still two bombs short. Plus, we still need to find Dr. Madison and Meredith Hughes. You're the best one to help him figure out where they all are."

Erica frowned uncertainly. "But—"

"Please."

Erica said nothing for a moment, obviously torn, but, finally, she looked away with a nod.

Julianne gave a relieved sigh. "Thank you," she said, meaning it. "And thank you for…what you did earlier, on the phone." She'd wouldn't have found her strength again if Erica hadn't forced her to come up here.

Erica's gaze narrowed, her lips quirking. "Anytime." She took a step back, then grabbed Julianne's arm. "Be safe. And keep him safe."

Julianne nodded, and then looked up at Quereshi. The doctor stepped to one side so she could enter Lloyd's room. She glanced once more at Erica, only to see the woman frowning as she reluctantly walked away.

Quereshi cleared his throat. "He won't be too coherent," he warned her as Julianne looked again at Lloyd. "Don't expect him to make much sense right now."

She nodded her understanding and pushed through door into the room.

It was markedly different from the one downstairs. There were more monitors, wires and tubes, for one thing. But it was also cleaner, whiter, more modern looking. The room in the basement had been a study in eighties pastels, this one was almost purely white and black. The chairs in here were also soft and plush.

She grabbed one and pulled it up next to the bed so she could sit down. Taking Lloyd's hand, she smiled to see him tilt his head and blink at her.

"Hi," she said, squeezing his hand. He blinked again and frowned slightly.

"Julianne?" he whispered. She nodded.

"It's me. I'm here."

He stared at her a moment with half lidded eyes, and then frowned again. "Is my mother here?"

Julianne frowned as well. "Your mother?"

"I thought…Was she here?"

Julianne shook her head once. "No. I'm sorry, Lloyd. She didn't come."

He grimaced, and turned his head away. She tried to understand the reaction. It wasn't hard to know that Lloyd's relationship to his mother was a strange one. He seemed to both hate her and need her at the same time. She wasn't sure how both things could be true, but they clearly were.

And, for no really good reason, she suddenly remembered why Lloyd had picked the house where they'd found Hughes two nights ago. It was the house where Hughes's mother had died—where Hughes, according to Lloyd, had first felt he'd lost control of something, at the young age of ten. It was the last place Hughes wanted to burn down, because he'd loved his mother even if he hated her for leaving him.

But it wasn't really the first time he'd felt like he'd lost control of something, was it? Hughes's mother had spent nearly six months in this hospital, undergoing chemotherapy and dying by degrees, before being sent home to finally die. Hughes would have been told, along with his father, that his mother was all but dead right inside these halls. Julianne knew, because she'd been through it herself.

She stood up suddenly, and Lloyd turned his head to look at her again, startled by her abrupt motion.

"I'll be right back," she promised. He didn't look like he believed her, so she squeezed his hand again. "I promise. And I always keep my promises, Lloyd, you know that."

He just watched her, his expression still obviously uncertain, so she smiled briefly. "I'm not going leaving this hospital without you," she whispered. "Scout's honor." Lloyd blinked, but the tiniest smile touched his lips at those words. Julianne almost crushed his hand in hers before letting it go to walk away. She could feel his eyes on her the whole way to the door.

Dr. Quereshi had left to work on another patient, but the two bomb squad soldiers were still nearby. She waved one of them over

"There's at least one more bomb in this hospital," she said, "and I think I know where it is."

…

* * *

…

The thin band of light under the door told Shea three things. One, someone was inside this room. Two, he really probably shouldn't go in there. Three, this was probably the last time he'd have to wonder about how he'd ended up risking his life like this.

Sadly, it wasn't a very long answer, and it ended in, "because you are an idiot."

He stared at it for a time, fingering his radio and wondering if Ray had kept his promise or not, or whether he'd left. He might have been forced to leave. He could see that happening, to be honest. Ray was hurt, and, let's face it, Shea hadn't exactly been "Team Ray" lately.

After what he'd said, if Ray did leave, Shea would actually understand. Shea had all but said he didn't want to work with them anymore. So what value was he to them?

But Ray had said he wouldn't. And, though Ray wasn't the most upfront of people—he'd never seen Ray actually lie about something that mattered. And in that moment, when Ray had said he wouldn't leave, he'd sounded like…like Shea mattered.

Hell, when it boils down to it, he just didn't want to die alone. And if he went inside that door, to see where the light was coming from, he'd probably do just that.

He closed his eyes and backed off the door, sighing slightly.

Not going through the door was still an option. He could turn and run right now. But if he did, Erica and Lloyd could still die, along with a bunch of others since they hadn't found the last two bombs, and those men and women disarming the ones they had found would probably die as well. But if he did go through that door….he might also be able to save them all. It was all him now.

And Shea Daniels did not like to back down from a fight. If he played this right, he could still win this.

With that in mind, he pulled out the gun from behind his back and cracked open the magazine. After a moment's hesitation, he removed all the bullets but the one in the chamber. Ignoring the voice in the back of his brain screaming at him to _run, run, run_, he put the gun back together and pocketed the bullets. The gun would be part of Plan B, if Plan A didn't work. Shoving it behind his back again, he drew in a breath, and depressed the handle on the door.

It opened easily.

Inside, the room was almost oppressively hot and, instantly, Shea knew what was shedding the light. Massive black boilers had heated the apartment building where he had grown up, and if you opened the grates, the fires inside could shed light on even the darkest night. Someone had done that here.

Leaving the door open behind him, he looked around the large room, most of which was blocked off by open shelves packed to overflowing with random landscaping and janitorial equipment, most of which looked highly flammable. Of course. Bags of fertilizers and plant soil were stuffed in the corners, small mowers with gasoline in them were shoved in between garden shears and electric pruners on shelves, and paint cans had been shoved on higher shelves, along with other painter's materials. Only thing that didn't look like it would blow up were the carts filled with toiletries for the bathrooms. Only closer inspection, though, the chemicals in the cleaners were probably not exactly retardants.

Shea put the radio back in his pocket and pulled out the gun, holding it in both hands as he sidled up next to the first set of shelves. Once there, he stopped to listen.

Fire crackled inside the boilers in the room, the metal creaking and banging with stored up steam, while the massive pipes carrying the heat to the rest of the building hissed and whistled. In a nearby corner, something—or somethings—skittered and scuttled across the cement floor, squeaking and sniffing. Rats, attracted to the heat, probably. Meanwhile, all around, wooden support beams groaned in the humid air, the building settling like the old man that it was.

But nothing human made a sound.

He padded to the end of the shelves and peeked around the corner, looking deeper into the room. Still nothing obvious. Frowning slightly, he pivoted around the end of the shelves and walked down the center aisle, always listening, trying not to be too loud.

And then he saw him.

Hughes had his back to him, leaning against a workbench along one side of the room, shoulders hunched and his head down.

Shea came to a stop, looking at him through the shelves. Hughes was looking down at something small, black and with wires sticking out of it. That'd be bomb number eight. Just one unaccounted for now.

Plan A was simple. Surprise Hughes by tackling him before he finished messing around with that thing. Or he could just shoot him. Maybe both. Then he'd just beat on Hughes to make him talk, to tell him where the last bomb was. Then he could just leave and—

"I know you're there," Hughes said suddenly, not turning around. "I've been standing here listening to nothing but rats and pipes for the last ten minutes. Trust me, no matter how quiet you thought you were opening the outer door, it wasn't quiet enough."

Well, shit.

…

* * *

TBC….


	11. Chapter 11

_Apologies – RL took over this weekend, and I couldn't get on the computer._

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: BOOM, REDUX**

Shea sighed softly, and his finger tapped the trigger of the gun. Plan A could still work, if he just winged—

"I also know that you're probably thinking of just shooting me right now," Hughes continued, his voice matter-of-fact. "The reason that's a bad idea is that I've reset the timer on the bomb in front of me, but my finger is still on the reset button. If I don't immediately hit it again after I lift my finger off, it'll blow up, and take all the highly flammable items inside this room with it. I figure, with the other bombs in this building, it should be enough to take out the whole block, which I doubt the people outside have realized yet. What do you think? Do they know how dead they all are out there?"

Shea closed his eyes briefly, and then opened them again.

"So what's it going to be?" Hughes asked, turning slightly to look over his shoulder, though he didn't look exactly at where Shea was. "Do we die together, or do you come out, hands raised? Here to beg on your knees for me not to destroy us all?"

Shea snarled slightly—so much for beating the answer out of this guy. Reluctantly, he uncurled his hands from the gun and raised his hands, stepping out from behind the shelves with the gun loose in his hand.

Hughes arched an eyebrow. "Huh. I wasn't expecting you. Oh, and, obviously, drop the gun."

Shea put the gun on the ground in front of him and stood up, hands loose by his sides now. "You were expecting someone else?"

Hughes smiled slightly. "Actually, I wasn't really expecting anyone. Not after I took the power down."

"You took the power down?" Shea repeated, though it was only confirming what he'd already suspected.

Hughes' shrugged. "I had it rigged so that, once morning came and this place was full of people, the power would go down and lock in as many as possible." He smiled horribly. "I wanted them running around in a panic, trying to get out, and then…" He splayed out his free hand. "Boom."

Shea really wanted to just call the man sick to his face, but the sensible side of him managed to keep the freaked side in check.

Hughes shook his head and looked down. "Sadly, I had to use that trick earlier than I wanted, in order to try to stop people from getting to these bombs before me." He looked up at Shea. "So, you here to stop me, cop?"

"Still not a cop," Shea replied. "And no…not really."

Hughes gave a confused frown. "Well then, whatever you are, why are you here?"

"I still want to make a deal."

Hughes's lips curled into a sneer, his eyes narrowing to little black beads inside his skull, black as pitch.

"And why," he asked slowly, "would I want to make a deal with you?"

"Because you need my help, that's why."

"I'm pretty sure I don't."

"Then why haven't you let that button go already?" Shea tilted his head. "More to the point, why did you prop open the door leading to the rear exit?"

Hughes smiled wryly. "Oh, I see. You think I did that so I could escape? Sorry to disappoint, but the electrical room is down that corridor – I needed to shut that down first. I propped the door open so I would be able to come back to reset this bomb's timer."

"But you left it propped. If you'd wanted to die, you wouldn't have done that. And you wouldn't still be standing here, holding that button down…having second thoughts."

Hughes stared at him, and then laughed slightly. It wasn't an amused laugh, it was a hysterical one.

"You found me out," he said, eyes too bright inside his skull. "I don't want to die. Not yet. Not like this. My blaze of glory was meant to have a much higher body count."

"And I'm guessing it wasn't meant to include your son," Shea pressed, hoping he had the man right. Hughes had wanted his son brought to the courthouse, but not brought inside. It meant he hadn't wanted the boy to be caught in the blasts at the hospital. "But now it might, right?"

Hughes's smile had frozen, the other man just staring at him now, obviously trying to figure him out. So Shea stepped a little closer, trying to see the bomb more clearly. Mostly, he wanted to see what button Hughes was holding down.

Hughes curled his lip, and shifted to block Shea's view. "You're not exactly subtle, are you, cop?"

Shea sighed. "Again, really not a cop, Hughes."

"Sure you are. Why else would you be here? You could have run yourself, when you saw that open door, but you came after me instead. A con wouldn't do that."

Shea shook his head. "He would if he had good reason." He narrowed his eyes. "And it's one you and I got in common."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"We both got someone in that hospital we don't want to die." Shea took another step closer, and Hughes shifted more in front of the bomb. "See, here's the thing. Marshals told me you were given nine bombs by Peter's guy. They found seven, including two at the hospital. That one in front of you makes eight. So where's the last bomb?"

Hughes just stared at him, the smiled fixed on his face.

"Look," Shea said, "I'm not gonna try to stop you from blowing this place sky high. It creeps the hell out of me, and, frankly, the fewer police and courtrooms in the world, the better. But I do want to know if there's a third bomb at that hospital, and I want to know now."

Hughes's eyes narrowed. "And if I tell you," he said, "what do I get in return?"

"I'll help you escape."

Hughes snorted. "Sure. Tell me another."

"I'm serious. You know how fucked you are. You want to escape, but there's gonna be cops at every exit, just waiting for you to try. You know you're trapped. But I can make a hole."

Hughes studied him briefly. "How?"

"See this radio?" Shea slipped it out of his pocket. "I call my friend who works for the marshals. You probably remember him from when he almost shot you a couple nights ago in that house, and you knifed him in the leg."

Hughes smiled at that, like it was a fond memory. Then his eyebrows perked and he grinned, looking at Shea with widened eyes.

"That's how I know you," he said, triumphantly. "You were there! I hit you."

"You elbowed me in the face when you stumbled down the stairs. Not the same thing."

Hughes' grin just widened maniacally.

"As I was saying," Shea continued, "I call my friend in the marshals, tell him that I found you, and that I'm bringing you out the back entrance. He'll believe me, 'cause my deal with the marshals is, every fugitive I help bring in, I get time off my sentence. Plus, I already told him you propped open that doorway—he'll be expecting me to use it, since it's the quickest way out. He'll send all the cops back there."

"But instead of the back entrance we'll—"

"He's cutting through the bars to the stairs below the police station to get to the cop you knocked out, and so that I had another way out in case I needed it. We send everyone around back, tell Ray to get out, and then you and me'll just go out through the door he cuts and find a nice quiet side exit that we can use."

Hughes was smiling again. "And all that, just so I'll tell you where the last bomb is."

"Pretty much."

"What if they find out you helped me?"

"I'll tell 'em you got the drop on me." Shea shook his head. "Look, all I care about is my friend at the hospital. And if you want son to live, you'll tell me if the last bomb is there."

Hughes smile drooped, until all that was left was sneer. "You spin a good story, cop, but it's not going to work. Soon as I tell you, you're going to screw me."

Shea arched an eyebrow. "What'll it take to prove that I'm not lying?"

Hughes stared at him a moment, and then looked down at the gun on the ground. When he looked up at Shea again, the smile was back.

"Kick me the gun."

Shea breathed out heavily. He'd been waiting for that. After a long enough moment, he gave a nod and kicked the gun across the floor. Hughes watched it, fixed on the gun the whole time. When it hit his foot, he bent down and picked up the gun with his free hand.

"Way I see it," Hughes said, hefting the gun in his hand, "if you lie to me…." He pointed the gun at Shea…and fired.

It blasted away a half empty paint can a few inches to the left of Shea's head.

Shea had closed his eyes, but he opened them again to look at the paint can—which, ironically, was filled with red paint—before looking back at Hughes. A set of shiny yellow teeth greeted him—Christ, white people had ugly teeth.

"So," Shea said, attempting to draw in a calming breath despite the painful ringing in his ears, "we got a deal?"

Hughes continued to point the gun at him. "We have a deal."

"Then tell me where the last bomb is."

"You only found two at the hospital."

Shea grimaced. "Yes."

"There's another."

"Where?"

"Which two did they find?"

Shea's eyes narrowed, "I don't know. You tell me."

Hughes stared at him a moment, then shrugged. "I put one in that quack Madison's office, one in the basement where they held me—horrible pastels down there, drive any man insane—and…one in pediatrics."

Shea's eyes pinched. "Kids?"

Hughes' answering smile was ice cold. "I hit a school, remember?"

Shea's lips curled, too disgusted to speak. He lifted the radio to his lips, and then stopped. Lowering it, he frowned at Hughes.

"One more thing," Shea said, pointing at the bomb with the radio, "why are you still holding that thing? Seems to me you could have let go and hightailed it long before I got here."

Hughes laughed again, that same hysterical sounding laugh from earlier, like someone who was just about to completely lose his mind.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes," Shea said, "I do."

"I'm holding this button down because there are no damned clocks in this room."

Huh? "What?"

"I don't have a watch. I don't know what time it is. And since I don't know how to set this thing to a countdown, I have to set it to a time, but I only have a vague idea of what hour it is. And the only reason I even know the hour is because I saw the watch on the cop's wrist that I knocked out. But what if I read it wrong? Or if it's slow?"

"You're holding that button down because you don't know what time it is."

"Got it in one, Sherlock." He glanced at Shea's bare wrist. "And you don't have one either."

"Prisoners don't need or want watches. You know that. I'd go crazy with one."

Hughes's sick, fixed smile dropped slightly, and he really looked at Shea for what felt like the first time.

"You really are a con?"

"Yeah. Which is why I'm not too broken up if you escape."

Hughes's smile fell away completely then, and he looked down at the bomb.

"When did you reset it to?" Shea asked.

"10:00." He looked up. "What time is it?"

Shea shook his head. He wasn't sure. When he went in to talk to Hughes that first time, back in his cell, it was about 9:00. Had it been an hour?

"Hell," Hughes said then, and released the button. Shea instantly rocked back, hands going up, but nothing happened. Hughes just hit the button he'd been pressing again, looked down at the timer, and gave a nod. "It's done. Guess it's not ten yet." He turned back the Shea, stepping closer, pointing the gun at the radio in Shea's hand. "So make the call."

Shea sighed, trying to calm his nerves, then flipped the switch on the radio, not taking his eyes off Hughes. "Ray. You there?"

"Yeah," Ray replied, his voice relieved. "What's going on?"

"I found Hughes, and the eighth bomb. He won't disarm it, but he'll leave with me." Hughes watched Shea with equal intensity, his eyes still too bright, lips curled in a creepy smile.

"Leave with you?" Ray repeated. "You mean, you're bringing him out?"

"Yeah. By the back entrance. You and Lloyd should meet us out there with the cuffs."

Ray hesitated briefly at Shea's words, then said, "Right."

"He also told me that there's another bomb in the hospital. It's in pediatrics."

That earned a longer pause. Then, "Pediatrics, huh? That's not what I expected."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I thought it would be in oncology."

Hughes' squinted. It was only brief, but it was enough for Shea to know that, not only had he been lied to…but that they'd already found the last bomb. Which meant he really didn't have to talk to this asshole anymore.

Quick as a snake, Hughes had the gun up, pointed at Shea's chest, pulling the trigger and clicking on empty. Eyes widening in surprise, he looked down at the gun in confusion.

And Shea clocked him in the side of his face with a right hook.

Hughes went down, and Shea followed him, slamming his fists into the man's face and chest, hammering away until his features were nothing more than a bloody pulp. Each punch felt like a catharsis, like a vindication.

"That's for knocking me out earlier, asshole," he snarled, rising back up in order to kick the man in the side. "That's for Lloyd." He kicked again, even harder. "And that's for everyone else." He delivered a final kick, to which Hughes didn't even groan—he was that out of it.

Shaking now, Shea finally backed up, certain that Hughes wasn't going to be regaining consciousness anytime soon, and fumbled for the radio.

"Ray!"

"Shea? What happened? You okay?"

"Yeah. He's out. What time is it?"

"Time?"

"Yeah. He set the bomb here to go off at 10:00. What time is it?"

"Christ, Shea, it's 9:50."

"Are you shitting me?"

"No."

"Can I reset it?"

"Not without his passcode. The guys upstairs already tried that."

"Then get them down here to disarm this thing."

"No go. They've been working on the ones upstairs for nearly fifteen minutes. They think they've got the connection severed, but actually disarming the bomb? It's just not that easy."

"Well…look, I'm in a really bad room. There's all sorts of shit that can make this bomb go a lot bigger than it should. I don't think we'd get away fast enough. I think it could take out the whole block."

Ray hissed over the radio. "Okay, okay…where is it?"

"Boiler room."

"Okay, we'll figure something out. You just run, okay? Me and Charlie will think of something."

Shea looked down at Hughes, and then over at the bomb. Sergeant Vega had said it could be moved, just "very, very carefully." He spun around and ran to grab one of the janitorial carts, dumping the toilet paper and chemical cleaners on the floor.

"I can move it," he said then, into the radio, wheeling the cart back to the bomb. "Tell me where to take it that'll do the least damage."

"Are you kidding?"

"I don't have a lot of time here! Where can I take it?"

"Hang on."

Shea growled, but as he waited, he carefully lifted the bomb onto the cart, resting it on top next to the radio. With one last look at Hughes, he slowly pushed the cart past the shelves and out the door.

No question, this was his dumbest idea yet.

"Shea, we've got something."

Shea closed the door to the boiler room behind him, squinting a little at the now almost pitch black hallway. He flipped on the flashlight and picked up the radio.

"What?"

"Building's still got a bomb shelter built into it from the fifties. It's back here, not far from where the cells are."

Shea turned the cart back the way he'd come and started pushing. "Bomb shelter?"

"Yeah. We put the bomb in there, the walls may be thick enough to stop it from reaching the other bombs before they're disarmed. At the very least, we know it won't reach the ones at the hospital."

"What about the building?"

"It should contain most of the blast. Figure, if it can protect people from a nuclear blast from the outside, it should contain a lesser bomb inside."

Shea snorted. "You really think?"

"Better than the boiler room."

Shea just nodded, and then frowned. "Wait, if it's back the way I came…all those doors were locked, Ray. And I don't have a lockpicking kit."

"It's okay, we're through the gate back here. I'll make sure it'll be unlocked. Just get it here."

Shea sighed, but continued to push, flinching every time the wheels caught something on the cement floor. At least it was smooth—if it had been wood or anything other than cement….

The cart wobbled slightly as it hit a crack, and Shea blew out a breath. He could see the timer on the front, exposed still, with 10:00 on it, the colon between the numbers slowly blinking down the time. Damn…he really wished he'd had a watch.

"Time, Ray?"

"9:54. You're doing great, Shea."

"You're watch isn't slow, is it, Ray?"

"Hell no. If anything, it's fast. Just keep it coming."

Shea reached the propped open door to the exit, and looked at it longingly. Five minutes would be enough time to get away, if there was a car waiting for him out there….

He kept pushing, his heart hammering in his chest, his head swimming again. The headache from earlier had receded while he'd been talking to Hughes, but now it was back in full force, as if berating him for his stupidity.

He rounded the first corner, still in total darkness.

"Ray?"

"9:55. It's only been a minute. Calm down."

"You push a literal ticking time bomb through the basement of hell, and then tell me to calm down!"

He saw the next corner ahead. Not far to go now.

And then he saw the light, pale and ghostly, brightening the corner. He couldn't help it, he sped up.

"Who's there?"

And, like that, Ray appeared around the corner, flashlight in hand. "Me. This way, come on."

Shea actually grinned, and pushed the cart a little faster, trying not to notice that the bomb was being jostled. Hopefully not too much.

Ray met him and quickly limped alongside, looking down at the bomb.

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"Small."

"Yeah."

Ray grimaced, limping with him as they turned the final corner into the corridor with the cells. The first door on the right was open. Shea frowned.

"How did you…?"

Ray lifted the keys and jangled them. "Cops here were more than happy to let me have them. Friendliest I've ever seen them."

Shea smiled thinly, and pushed the cart into the room. Like the room they'd been in, it was filled with files. The only real difference was the walls on either side of the entranceway looked to be about a foot thick, versus just a few inches.

"More cold cases?" he asked, looking at the shelves as he pushed the cart to the center.

Ray just shrugged. "Who cares. Come on. You gotta help me up the stairs. My leg is killing me."

Shea nodded, let the cart go and jogged out of the room with Ray a step behind him. Ray turned, shut the metal door, and pushed Shea towards the stairs.

"Time?" Shea demanded as they pulled open the door Shea had propped earlier next to the cells.

"9:57."

"This is going to suck," Shea said. Reaching behind him, he grabbed Ray's arm and threw it over his shoulder. "You gotta move faster."

Ray said nothing, just smiled thinly as Shea propelled them towards the second barred doorway, the one that still smelled like burnt metal. He could see where they'd cut through the lock, the ends were still smoldering.

Samuels and the other cop were already gone, evac'd. But Ray hadn't left with them. Even though he should have.

One more door.

Shea shoved the doorway on the stairs open, and all but hauled Ray up the steps. He was breathing hard, his head was splitting, but, damn it, he was getting them both out of here. Ray gasped in pain at the first landing, pulling Shea down a little as the weight on Shea's shoulders increased.

"Maybe…" Ray gasped, "maybe you should leave me…."

"Shut up, Zancanelli," Shea snapped, pulling them up the next set of steps. "What's the time?"

"9…" Ray wheezed slightly. "9:58."

Shea focused on the last set of stairs, propelling them both up them and onto the main floor of the police station. He dragged Ray through the empty hallway, and through to the completely silent marble entranceway. The stairs were just ahead, and he could see flashing lights beyond, shimmering through the glass doors. In all his life, he'd never ever been happy to see flashing lights.

"There's always a first time," he muttered, pulling Ray down the steps towards the doors to the outside.

"What?" Ray grunted.

"Nothing," Shea said, reaching the doors and slamming them open with a hard shove. "HELP!" he shouted. "Someone help me!"

Instantly, someone ran forward. He didn't need to see the man's face to know it was Charlie.

And then there was a sound like a mountain had just crashed into the earth, and the ground rose up to meet them in a wave of noise and pain….

* * *

To be concluded in Chapter 12


	12. Chapter 12

**UNTIL THE BELL TOLLS  
By TIPPER**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE: STILL HERE**

He gasped as he woke up, feeling as if he couldn't get enough air. He searched around, seeking color, light, explanation. When he saw Charlie kneeling next to him, the Marshal pressing a hand to his shoulder, a smile on his face, Shea felt his whole body just relax.

"You okay?" Charlie asked, sounding very far away.

He gave a nod. Charlie's smile broadened, and he looked away. "What about you?" he asked then, to someone else. Shea let his head flop to the side so he could see who.

Ray was on the ground on the other side of Charlie, pushing himself up onto his elbows, one hand rubbing at his eyes.

"Yeah," Ray grunted, before collapsing back to the ground and rolling onto his back. "Mostly."

"Did we do it?" Shea asked, drawing Charlie's attention back.

Charlie gave a nod. "Yeah. The shelter contained most of the bomb's explosive force, and the other ones didn't go off at all. Building's still standing and everyone's fine."

Shea closed his eyes. "Good."

…

* * *

…

When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sensation of being moved. Blinking slowly, he registered that he was being slid into an ambulance on a gurney. It was weird—he knew he was the one being moved, but from this angle it felt like the ambulance was being backed up around him.

"Hey," Ray called.

Shea blinked again, and tilted his head towards the voice. Ray was sitting on a bench to his right, leg propped up and bandaged, and holding what looked like a rag to his head. He looked terrible.

"You look terrible," Shea croaked, deciding it needed to be said out loud. Ray just snorted.

"Yeah."

"We still here?" Shea asked, tilting his aching head up to look out the back of the ambulance. He couldn't see much.

"Yeah. Be rolling soon."

"Charlie?"

"He and Erica have gone to retrieve Hughes."

"Erica's here?"

"She arrived just as we were coming out. Told me that Lloyd was doing better, so she came to help us."

Shea nodded, and closed his eyes again as the pain in his head started to start messing with his vision.

"Hey," Ray said, and something in his voice told Shea he needed to open his eyes again. Against his better judgment, he turned his head to look at the other man and tried to ignore the way the room spun.

Ray wasn't looking back. He had his head down, his forehead puckered up like a prune. "Um…" The big man swallowed, face pinching with the motion. "About what you said earlier, about the team, and about me. I've been thinking on it, and—"

"Ray, stop." Shea frowned when Ray glanced at him. "Look, forget it. You and me? We're good. What you did, staying down there with me, having my back…." He cracked a tiny smile. "We're good," he said again.

Ray didn't break eye contact for a while, his face still pinched, but a little less so now. After a moment, though, he shook his head. "Nah. Not good enough." He looked down again. "You weren't wrong about what happened to Lloyd. About my part in that."

"Ray…."

"No. Look, I, uh…I've been thinking about it. A lot. And one thing I know, I don't ever want to see one of you shot while on my watch again. If something I did, or didn't do, led to that happening, then I gotta fix that." Ray lifted his gaze to meet Shea's. "Okay?"

Shea wanted to laugh. It wasn't an apology. It wasn't even an acknowledgement of what Ray had actually done to get Lloyd shot, or everything that happened after, but…it was very Ray. And it was good enough. More than Shea had expected, actually.

Besides, if anyone knew what it was like to get in trouble for saying stupid ass things, and being judged because of it, it was him, Lloyd and Erica.

So he replied by offering a half smile. "Yeah," he said, and turned to look up at the ceiling. "Okay."

And he meant it. Because it was.

…

* * *

…

Erica crossed her arms, frowning as Hughes was wheeled down the hospital corridor, still alive, despite it all. He was a mangled mess, but more from Shea's handiwork than the bomb. His chances were poor. She wished they were non-existent.

"I know what you're thinking," Charlie said softly by her side. "And, me too."

She cracked a rueful smile, then asked, "Anything on Meredith Hughes and Madison?"

"Yeah. Before all hell broke loose, Shea got Hughes to admit that Meredith Hughes was in a building next to a bank. There's only one bank on the square opposite the Town Hall, so it was pretty easy to figure out which one. They found her about ten minutes ago—she should be on her way here."

Erica smiled brightly at that. "And Madison?"

"FBI figured that one out almost immediately after you found the hospital bombs. Turns out, he was still in his office. He never left it. Hughes tied him to his own office chair and positioned him so he could see the hospital, locked the office door, then wore Madison's hat and coat out of the building, hiding his face with a scarf. You can tell it's him if you look more closely at the security tapes, but no one had looked that close."

Erica's eyebrows lifted. "So we're done?" she asked.

"Yeah," Charlie said. "We did it. We're done."

Erica smiled thinly, crossing her arms more tightly. Weirdly, it felt a little anti-climactic. After all this…

"Detective Reed?" a voice called.

Erica blushed, and looked up at Charlie.

"Detective?" he repeated softly, a little nonplussed. Erica opened her mouth to explain, but by then, Dr. Nguyen had arrived, smiling brightly.

"Detective," the doctor said to her, "I'm so glad I spotted you, and that you're still here. I thought you might like to, uh, come see the reunion?"

Erica's eyes widened slightly. "Reunion?"

"Connor's mother was just brought in. They're taking her up to the fifth floor. I think both she and her son will want to thank you for what you've done." The doctor smiled brightly. "And they're not the only ones. This hospital also owes you a great debt for what you did."

Erica blinked a few times. "Uh…." She looked up at Charlie. "I…."

"She'd love to," Charlie said, smiling at her. "Lead the way, Doc."

Dr. Nguyen smiled again, and started walking. With an encouraging nudge from Charlie, Erica and he followed her down the hall to the elevators.

A few minutes later, Erica watched as Meredith and Connor Hughes held onto each other for dear life while all sorts of other people fluttered around them like moths. At one point, Meredith met Erica's eyes, and mouthed the words "thank you." Dr. Nguyen thanked her with a hug, and then other people came up to shake her hand. Erica just nodded, dumbstruck by it all.

"You know," Charlie whispered in her ear after the well-wishers had finally left, "the title 'Detective Reed' suits you. Something to consider, when you get out."

Erica blushed, but couldn't help feeling a huge swell of pride at that, even though part of her felt that it could never happen, not after what she did. Still, as she watched Meredith and Connor together, she wondered how she could have ever thought this moment would be anticlimactic.

…

* * *

…

A day later, both Ray and Shea were being released from the hospital. Shea let himself be wheeled by a nurse to the doorway outside Lloyd's room, and grinned slightly at seeing Ray sitting in his own wheelchair, scowling like a thundercloud. Charlie was standing by the door, looking through the window, and Erica was pacing up and down the hall, giving Charlie annoyed looks.

"What's up?" Shea asked, sending an arched eyebrow at Erica. "Something wrong?"

"No, no," she muttered, waving a hand at him. "No more than usual."

Ray shrugged. "She's mad because the kid she saved's in session with his mother, and Lloyd's asleep, so she's not going to say be able to say goodbye to either of them. The van's already here, apparently."

"I just…" Erica stopped pacing and crossed her arms. "I'd wanted to…you know…."

Shea nodded. "And you?" He looked at Ray. "What's your problem?"

Erica snorted. "The Doc gave him an earful about his leg. Something about wrecking her stitches."

"That woman's got something wrong with her," Ray muttered. "It's not like a did it on purpose."

Erica smirked, but Shea didn't have the heart. "Well, you can rest it now, make her happy," he said. Ray glanced at him, giving him a tiny, rueful smile. Shea returned it, and looked towards Lloyd's door.

"How long before he's moved to the prison infirmary?" he asked.

Charlie shrugged. "His doctor said it'd be a couple of days. He wants to keep a closer eye on him."

Shea frowned, looking up at Charlie. "Does that mean one of you has to stay up here as well?"

"Julianne already volunteered," Charlie replied, and Ray sighed heavily at the news. Shea just lifted his eyebrows, and tried not to smile. Charlie and Ray weren't stupid—they had to know Lloyd had feelings for the girl. He wondered if Julianne was aware of it.

"Volunteered, eh?" he said. Ray gave him a dark look. This time, he did smile. Why the hell not. "I'm just saying," he said, "could be a good thing, you know? For both of them. Julianne's getting over her fear of hospitals. Lloyd…gets prettier company than the two of you."

Ray was really scowling now, which only made Shea grin harder. He spotted Erica hiding a half smile out of the corner of his eye, her head down so the other two wouldn't see.

"Maybe I should stay with him," Ray said then, looking up at Charlie. "After all, I got some healing to do as well."

"Nah, I think you earned a break, Ray," Charlie replied, finally turning away from the window to look at the little group. "Actually, I think you all do. You guys really went above and beyond this time. And, trust me, it was noticed."

Erica straightened, and Shea leaned forward in his chair. "Meaning?" he asked.

"Meaning, I've arranged for you three to stay a couple of days at the same safe houses you stayed in after we caught Vega. I thought you could call your girl, Shea, and Erica, I've already arranged for your daughter to have a the next two days off school."

Erica gasped, covering her mouth. Shea had gotten to his feet, eyes wide.

"You serious?" he asked.

"Do I ever joke?" Charlie replied.

Shea laughed, and Erica bounced over to hit him lightly on the arm, grinning now.

"And me?" Ray asked, frowning slightly.

"Your call. Use it or not. I'm thinking your daughter might want to miss a couple of days of school, though."

Ray flashed a tiny smile, leaning back in his chair.

"Someone else is going to be watching you, though," Charlie said. "I'm going on vacation."

Ray laughed, and Erica snickered. Shea plopped back down in his chair, shaking his head.

The smile faded, though, as he considered that, for nearly dying, all he was getting was a couple of days in a slightly nicer prison than his usual. He breathed out heavily, trying to shake off the feelings. He was going to see Vanessa. That brought the smile back to his face.

"And Lloyd?" Erica asked then. "After he gets out of hospital, will he also get those two days?"

"Uh…no," Charlie said, frowning slightly. "All I can really do is get him an extended stay here. If he wants it." He looked through the window again.

Shea frowned slightly, and stood up again. Moving to stand next to Charlie, he looked through the same window. On the other side, he could see Julianne sitting in the chair next to Lloyd's bed, her laptop on her lap. Every so often, though, she'd look over at Lloyd's sleeping form.

"Think Julianne may want to stay that whole time?" Shea asked softly.

Charlie's eyebrows lifted. "I'm sure she'll want to take her own break."

"You know Lloyd'll stay," Shea whispered, "if she does."

Charlie nodded. "I know. Not sure what I think about that, Shea."

Shea glanced at him, but couldn't fathom the expression on Charlie's face. It was concern, certainly, but also uncertainty. Shea had started having his own reservations, to be honest, though more for Lloyd than Julianne. Still….

"It's just a few days, Charlie," he said.

Charlie nodded, and then turned to look at Shea. Then he shrugged and stepped away so he could look at all three of them.

"Oh, and one other thing." He shrugged slightly. "The chief of police for Redkill wanted to express his thanks. He says…the whole department apparently says…that we're welcome back anytime."

Shea snorted. "Sure, I bet he—"

"Especially you, Shea. Said if you needed a place to go after you got out…." He shrugged.

Shea blinked. He had no answer to that. Charlie smiled, and then tilted his head towards the elevators.

"Right. The van's downstairs, to take you to the safe houses."

Erica was already moving towards the elevators, and Shea had walked over to join her when someone cleared their voice. He turned around, and lifted an eyebrow at the sight of an orderly tapping his chair. Sighing, he moved to sit down. Ray slumped in his chair as another orderly arrived to push him as well. Shea smiled at him, and Ray actually smiled back as the two of them were pushed together towards the elevator.

"Wanna race?" Shea whispered. Ray actually laughed.

…

* * *

…

Charlie looked one more time through the window, frowning as Julianne lifted her head to look back at him. He thumbed towards the elevators, and she nodded and then gave a wave of goodbye.

He sighed, and turned away. It's just a few days.

He tapped the phone in his pocket as he walked away. He'd tried to work another month off of the cons' sentences, but he'd been shot down. Didn't seem right. Knox had actually accused him of getting too soft on the cons, sternly reminding him that they were all criminals and their sentences had been handed down for a reason. These were not good people.

He wasn't sure what to think about that. Getting them a couple of extra days out of the prison had seemed a poor reward for what they'd all done. But Knox was right—he had to remember that each one of them had done something to put them in prison in the first place. He couldn't just ignore that. He couldn't.

He jumped when a bell rang nearby, someone's cell phone set to ring like string of chimes. He just breathed for a moment, listening to his weak heart pounding in his ears.

He was going to drink a lot on this vacation.

…

* * *

…

Julianne watched Charlie disappear, and the others as well. When they'd all gone, she looked over at Lloyd.

He was looking at her, blinking slowly, eyes soft.

She reached out and took his hand.

"Hi," she said. "I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere for a while."

…

* * *

The End

_No man is an island, entire of itself.  
Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.  
If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,  
As well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy own or of thine friend's were.  
Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.  
Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls,  
It tolls for thee._

_John Donne – From Meditation #17_

Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and I would love to read your thoughts.


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